


I Belong to You

by DualWielding



Category: Glee
Genre: 18th century AU, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Antagonist!Sebastian, Awesome!Lauren, Captive!Blaine, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied non-con & suicide (not Kurt or Blaine), M/M, Other familiar characters with name changes to protect the guilty, PirateCaptain!Kurt, Romance, Slow Burn, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-06 20:41:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 110,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10344165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DualWielding/pseuds/DualWielding
Summary: Blaine's ship is attacked by pirates! But captivity isn't what he expected, and neither is the infamous Captain Black.





	1. Supreme Excellence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published on [FFnet](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9023597/1/I-Belong-to-You), Feb 18, 2013.
> 
> Many thanks to [AncientGleek](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AncientGleek/pseuds/AncientGleek), who betaed Chapter 1 for me with the thoroughness and frankness I needed, and inspired me to proofread the rest again. All remaining errors are my own.

  


* * *

**Chapter 1: Supreme Excellence**

Blaine Anderson had always been uncommonly lucky. He was clever, handsome and talented. "Leading a charmed life," people would tell him. Not only was he born into an affluent and influential family, but he was thoughtful, considerate and well liked, and, well, things just had a tendency to go his way.

None of these things ever went to his head, of course. His father saw to that. "Luck is for fools and beggars," Mr. Anderson would lecture at the dinner table, never bothered about failing to get a response from his son. It wasn't needed. Honestly, Blaine wasn't sure his father knew he was there, as the sharp, brown eyes, so different from his own, never looked directly at him. He'd grown used to it over time, he supposed. As used to it as one could be when made to feel slightly invisible.

"Nothing will be handed to you. You must seize every opportunity. Do what is necessary to improve your standing. Socialize with the right people, marry into the right family, behave with dignity at all times," his father would list the requirements for success that Blaine had had memorized before he'd fully understood the definition of dignity. "You certainly cannot depend on luck."

Blaine really hated it when his father was right.

* * *

Several jumbled images were featured in his slow return to consciousness, swimming hazily behind Blaine's closed lids. Alongside thoughts of his father were memories of the attack; the deafening noise, the adrenaline and fear. The chain-shot that tumbled through the air in a wildly spinning arc, as beautiful as it was terrifying, until its short flight ended in a great and crippling tangle of canvas and rope.

A pirate attack! It was too unbelievable. Things like that only happened to other people, or in stories told to naïve children. But it had happened. The merchant ship he'd been traveling on had been overtaken and boarded, the crew outmatched, and Blaine had leaped into the fray. He'd expected to die, but he wasn't going down without a fight. That was the last thing he remembered.

"Ow," he groaned, summing his day up nicely.

From somewhere nearby, he could hear people muttering and whispering, and someone crying. A hand tapped his shoulder. "All right there?"

Blaine cracked open a squinty eye, lifting a hand to the back of his head. Thad, a crew member he'd met during the voyage, was looking down at him from where he sat next to Blaine on a hard, wooden floor. "Yeah, I'm fine," he answered. Whether that was true or not was anyone's guess. The lump under his fingers suggested that someone might have tried to crack his skull with a blunt object. "Where are we?"

A short, humorless laugh came from Blaine's other side. "The Blackbird," said a sailor Blaine didn't know. The man reached out to rap a knuckle against a black, iron bar. It rang with a dull thunk, thunk. "Welcome aboard."

Eyes slowly widening, Blaine took in the horrifying sight of the interior of a prison cell. He sat up gingerly, pressing a palm uselessly to his aching head and looking around. Flickering light from hanging lanterns revealed a long, narrow room with cells along both sides, currently housing what looked to be the full ship's complement from the Iron Fist.

At one end of the room were steps leading to the only visible exit, guarded by two fearsome looking pirates, and the crying from earlier could still be heard coming from a cell on the opposite wall. It was one of the other passengers. She was a petite, attractive brunette, as expensively attired as the many simpering young ladies his mother was forever dragging him into the company of. The tears that leaked from her dark, frightened eyes were being delicately dabbed from her cheeks by a distraught companion, a lady several years her senior, who instantly, and perhaps unfairly, would have been labeled 'the spinster' by Blaine's friends back home. Her hair was the sort of bright, flaming red that he'd heard other ladies sneer at in disparaging undertones, as if it would somehow make themselves more attractive to ridicule the appearance of another. It had made him wonder what they would say about him, if his own differences from conventional social mores were outwardly visible.

This particular redhead had likely been made to feel inferior her entire adult life for the sin of being different. She struck Blaine as extremely jittery, seemingly unable to focus her distress on any specific one of the problems currently heaped upon her tiny shoulders. How he wished he could do something to help.

At odds with the behavior of both women was the presence of a serene, if somewhat bewildered looking blonde standing behind them. She was slim and beautiful, like the others, but quite tall by comparison, and possessing an obvious physical strength that they lacked. It made sense, really, because the blonde's simple, gray uniform clearly identified her status as a ladies' maid, and Blaine had spent enough time with the servants of his father's house to know how incredibly and unceasingly hard they worked.

"Is everyone here?" Blaine asked, turning toward his cellmates. Thad gave a hesitant shake of the head, saying nothing.

It was the other sailor who once again bluntly spoke up. "Cap'n's dead. Refused to hand over his ship and fought like a demon from what I hear." The man shot a contemptuous glare toward their silent guards, while others nearby nodded and muttered bitter insults against the attackers. "Sent half a dozen of the bastards to the depths before they cut him down."

"I'm sorry." Although he'd barely known Captain Clarington, having spoken to him only once or twice since they'd left port, Blaine was genuinely saddened. He couldn't hear of anyone's death without feeling a deep sympathy for the person's friends and family, and was therefore startled by the sailor's unconcerned shrug.

The man sat cross-legged, leaning tiredly against a wall of bars. Dark blond hair stuck out from his head in different directions as if it couldn't make up its mind and, like most of the sailors Blaine had seen in the last few weeks, his beard was wildly overgrown and not doing his face any favors. As much as it helped to disguise the gauntness of his cheeks, it also enhanced the dark shadows under his eyes.

The battle couldn't account entirely for his haggard appearance, so Blaine guessed there was no love lost between him and the deceased captain. Still, the sailor seemed conflicted, as though he wouldn't have wished the captain dead, but couldn't dredge up any true regret. Or perhaps he was simply too concerned about his own fate at the moment to mourn someone else's. Maybe they all should be.

In any case, they were stuck there for the time being. "Blaine," he introduced himself, holding out a hand.

"Johnny." The reply was accompanied by a firm handshake.

"Nice to meet you, Johnny. How long did you serve on the Iron Fist?" The small talk that came naturally to Blaine after a lifetime of training was cut short by the sound of approaching footsteps. The room went quiet, all eyes turned toward the door, some angry and others nervous, and the prisoners slowly got to their feet.

Blaine stood as well, with a helping hand from Thad, and watched the door bang open. Leading the way down the short flight of stairs was a large man, barrel-chested and outweighing Blaine by a good four or five stone. He looked intense and angry from the outset, with a tightly restrained bearing that declared his readiness to do violence if someone would please just give him a reason. The second person through the door was very tall, yet much less intimidating. Unlike the first one, this man didn't fit Blaine's idea of a pirate at all. He wore a guileless expression and exuded an endearing sort of awkwardness at seeing them all behind bars. Under other circumstances, Blaine might have liked him on sight. And lastly, striding noiselessly down the wooden steps in highly polished black leather boots, came a man who made the others fade into insignificance, at least for Blaine.

As the pirates came to a halt in the middle of the room, the silence grew eerie; nervous. Blaine's hands curled at his sides, and Thad's took on a subtle twitch. Johnny only leaned his forehead against the bars, looking resigned to whatever fate might befall them.

Blaine preferred to not think about that. Considering their circumstances, nothing good came to mind. If the pirates had no use for them, or worse, if they  _did_  have a use for them… He stopped that futile line of thought immediately and set his attention instead on a very interesting pair of legs. Slightly parted against the ever-present pitch and sway to which Blaine was still adjusting, the pirate's legs looked svelte and strong. The thigh muscles that shifted subtly under his close-fitting trousers were much more pleasant to dwell on than morbid ponderings of the most painful ways to die. Being shot, stabbed, or drowned all appeared to be viable options for his near future. Or near end, as the case may be. If he were forced to choose one, which would it be?

 _Stop it,_ he scolded himself. _Assuming the worst will get me nowhere. Be calm and objective. The tall one looks as though he wouldn't hurt a fly, and the angry one_ – _well, if it were up to him we'd probably be dead already. No. The smallest of them is clearly in charge. It's just a pleasant coincidence that he's also one of the most striking men I've ever seen._

Despite knowing that he was treading dangerously, Blaine couldn't tear his eyes away. There was something about the way the man carried himself, confident and composed, without an ounce of deference to anyone else. Blaine's first impression was that, although he obviously was a leader among the pirates, there was nothing at all terrifying about his appearance. Then Blaine saw his eyes, as cold as a lake in winter, and his first impression fell by the wayside.

"I am Captain Kurt Black." He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The hold was as silent as a tomb but for the gentle creaking of the ship.

Blaine was surprised by their captor's identity. Even  _he_  had heard of the Gentleman Pirate, if this truly was Captain Black. The disparities between Black's WANTED posters near the docks back home had been confusing at best, with each one seeming to portray a different man. One drawing showed him with long, black hair and equally dark eyes. Another had shorter, lighter hair and a scar down one cheek. And a third depicted someone older, with deep frown lines accentuating a firm sneer. Only one thing was certain: none of them bore any resemblance to this man.

The prisoners shifted and turned uncomfortably, or their eyes dropped to the floor when the captain's icy gaze began to pass over them. Blaine had never seen anything like it and found himself reluctantly intrigued by the uncommon criminal.

The captain's perusal soon stopped on one man, who glared fearlessly – foolishly? – back. "As you know, your captain is not here," Black said without any of the smugness or contempt Blaine might have expected. In fact, he could detect no emotion at all. Some of the men's angry looks returned, however, at the easy mention of Captain Clarington's death by the one who'd caused it. "Who was his second in command?" he asked the daring captive, apparently guessing the answer.

"I am First Mate Smythe," was the furious, cutting response. "I speak for this crew now."

"Excellent, Mr. Smythe," said the captain in his frighteningly detached tone, his eyes seeming to look through the sailor instead of at him. "Perhaps you'll be more cooperative than your predecessor."

Smythe gnashed his teeth. "Do you plan to murder me, too, if I don't bow and scrape? Just try it. I'll kill you with my bare hands!" he snarled.

Blaine was skeptical of the wisdom in throwing empty threats at a man who, by all accounts, would as soon shoot you as look at you. He also suspected that antagonizing the pirate wouldn't improve their situation, gentleman or not.

But Captain Black didn't give Smythe even the small satisfaction of a flash of temper. "Your captain's death was unnecessary," he calmly replied, plainly stating what the crew of the Iron Fist would not acknowledge. "Had he accepted the inevitable, he would be with you now. He chose his pride over his life. I hope none of you will make the same mistake."

Smythe said nothing to the thinly veiled, casually delivered threat, his eyes full of hatred and his fists clenched in impotent rage. The barrel-chested pirate growled low in his throat until Captain Black patted him on the shoulder, causing Blaine to blink in confusion at the friendly act. "Never mind. There's always one, isn't there, Davidson?"

Davidson's non-committal grunt seemed to be answer enough.

"As for the rest of you, I've come to explain your situation and see that any questions you might have are answered to your satisfaction." The room went very quiet again at this astonishing offer, and Blaine began to see how the pirate might have earned his nickname.

"First," he continued, "as long as you cooperate, none of you will be harmed." Again, Blaine was caught off-guard, stunned by such an assurance. Not that the word of a pirate was worth anything. So why did he find himself believing this one?

"Second, you will be released when we make port at a suitable location in a few months." A renewed furor of whispers arose at that. Blaine could sense the anxiety of his fellow captives, the spike of fervent hope, quickly smothered under fear and distrust. "And third, those of you who do not wish to spend the entirety of your journey exclusively in this hold may be allowed certain liberties after a time, in return for earning your keep."

Throughout this speech, Smythe's snarl had become, if anything, more pronounced. "We're not interested in being your slave labor!"

Slowly, Captain Black turned to face the hostile former first mate once more. Blaine watched those standing nearest Smythe edge cautiously away from the target he made. "I'm afraid I won't be able to extend the offer to you, Mr. Smythe." The captain's voice grew colder, exhibiting his first hint of annoyance. "I do not permit disruptions aboard my ship. However, you will be released with the others when the time comes. Unless you would prefer to depart the ship now, of course. I'd be happy to have you escorted to the rail if that is your wish," he said. Beside him, Mr. Davidson curled his lip in a silent, deadly promise that this was not an idle offer. Blaine knew they were very far from the nearest land.

"Now," the captain resumed his previous, emotionless tone of voice, dismissing the furious first mate as unimportant, "are there any questions?"

The jittery lady stepped forward, drawing a loud gasp from her tear-stained traveling companion, who had been staring in awe at the pirates from the moment they had entered the room. "I… I have one, um, Sir, Captain Black," she stammered. It was difficult to judge from her soft, frightened voice whether or not she actually wanted to be heard.

"Yes, madam." Black moved closer and the lady took several hurried steps back. "How may I be of service?"

The absence of any kind of warmth in his tone made his politeness sound odd and a little scary. Nevertheless, the lady seemed to gain some confidence at the respectful words, and her chin rose fractionally, although her clasped hands trembled before her. "Do you plan to leave the women and menfolk together like this?" she demanded tremulously, causing more than one sailor's brows to shoot upward at her boldness. "It is highly improper. My young charge and I cannot be expected to sleep in the same cell as grown men," she continued more firmly against what, to her, might have constituted a more outrageous set of circumstances than being imprisoned at all. "Not to mention other, more personal matters," she added, her voice little more than a humiliated whisper. The bright pink of her cheeks and intense red of her hair combined to give the appearance that she could burst into flames at any moment.

The captain did not smirk, as some men in his position might have done, or in any way give the impression that he enjoyed her discomfort. "Of course, madam," was all he said. "Naturally, the ladies cannot be expected to share their living quarters with the men. I will have it attended to immediately." He gave a small, polite nod, ignoring the shocked faces and disbelieving murmurs of the other prisoners, and turned to Davidson. "Mr. Davidson, please see that the ladies are afforded some privacy right away."

"Aye, sir," Davidson replied briskly and headed for the stairs without batting an eye.

"She's dead. She'll be thrown in the drink for sure," Johnny mumbled quietly, shaking his head. "Damn shame, a fine woman like that. Got some bollocks on her, don't she?" He nudged Blaine with an elbow, chuckling in admiration.

"If there are no other questions," the captain gestured lightly toward the tall pirate, who had yet to utter a sound, "this is Mr. Finley, the first mate. He will be responsible for you during your stay here and will keep me informed of any issues requiring my personal attention," he concluded in that strangely distant voice.

"Our stay here," someone sneered quietly.

Captain Black scanned the prisoners again, not deigning to pause on Smythe. Blaine thought his eyes might have flickered for an instant when they came to rest on him, but it was probably his imagination. Then the captain turned sharply on his heel and left without another word, and Blaine could only stare bemusedly at the unusual pirate. A moment later, the soft snick of the closing door broke the spell that had settled over the prisoners. It triggered a sudden cacophony of voices, everyone trying to speak at once, yelling over one another to make demands of Mr. Finley, and cursing him roundly for all that they had suffered that day.

Unfortunately for Mr. Finley, he didn't have the captain's ability to silence a room merely by being in it. Or perhaps the prisoners had taken courage from the unexpected success of the lady. Either way, the voices soon blended together into an incoherent shouting match. After several minutes of failed attempts to reassert control, Mr. Finley stopped trying and simply ignored the lot of them. He gave them his back and went to assist one of his shipmates, who was armed with a huge pile of blankets stacked well above his chin and was feeling his way into the brig, a foot stretched out ahead of him on the stairs to locate one step at a time. Together they brought down enough for everyone, causing the shouting to slowly die out. They had managed to surprise the prisoners again.

Meanwhile, Mr. Davidson had returned with a dozen armed guards, and he went about reorganizing the placement of the captives, emptying a cell on the end for the women. Then they proceeded to string rope across the middle and front, so the ladies could hang blankets to act as thick curtains, effectively blocking half of their cell from the view of everyone else.

The redhead, Miss Pillsbury, as she informed the first mate in a tone that reminded Blaine very much of his last governess, seemed quite pleased that her request had been granted so quickly and thoroughly. Head held high, she courteously thanked the pirates for locking her in a prison cell with blankets for walls. Blaine's involuntary snicker turned into an awkward cough at a look from Johnny, and Blaine decided it would be a good idea to try to sleep off his headache.

* * *

**TBC**

* * *

_"To capture the enemy's entire army is better than to destroy it; to take intact a regiment, a company, or a squad is better than to destroy them. For to win one hundred victories in one hundred battles is not the supreme of excellence. To subdue the enemy without fighting is the supreme excellence."_

_\- Sun Tzu_

 


	2. Hellos and Goodbyes

It was a good sleep that a delicious aroma and the resultant rumble of his stomach pulled Blaine from that evening. He supposed he should be grateful that a diet of bread and water wasn't on the pirates' agenda for their prisoners, but Johnny was grateful enough for the both of them, if the way he was trying to push his face between the bars was any indication.

"They wouldn't starve us," Thad was saying.

"You don't know that," argued Johnny, refusing to take his eyes off of the glorious sight before him.

Dinner, Blaine saw when he joined the others, consisted of thick slices of bread and a hearty stew that was being dished up by a rather formidable and vocal woman, and passed through slots in the doors by two boys who jumped to do her bidding. Superstitious grumblings could be heard from prisoners here and there about female sailors and bad luck, but no one, Blaine noticed, said it to her face or declined her food.

They'd just about finished serving everyone when Mr. Finley clomped down the steps, Davidson right behind. Finley smugly regarded the room full of people whose mouths were too occupied to be bellowing any grievances. "Captain Black asked me to look in on you again before lights out." He spoke without interruption, and grinned afterward. "Also to remind you the offer stands if you'd like to pitch in topside. He reckons you'll want to think on it awhile. We can't be babysitting, though, so you'd be expected to work while stretching your legs. No more than a few at a time either, so keep in mind you'd have to take turns." He got a mixed reception, with expressions ranging from thoughtful to furious – Smythe. "Most of you are crew, I expect. How many passengers?"

The ladies raised their hands, of course, and the maid followed suit after a few swiftly spoken words from the other two. There was also a footman who'd been traveling with them, one older, rounder gentleman traveling alone, and Blaine. Finley murmured something to Davidson, whose hard glance examined both the footman and Blaine before he nodded curtly and left.

"Captain might come around again sometime in the next few days." Mr. Finley's voice rose progressively louder as meals were consumed and the clamor grew. "In the meantime, if there are any problems you can ask for me!" The cook was going about her business, scraping the pot to refill bowls held out for more and calling to her assistants to fetch water, without moderating her volume. The boys each filled a pail from a large barrel, dropped ladles into them and brought them to the table where the cook thumped down her empty kettle. Men were talking, metal was clanging, and spoons were clattering, and Mr. Finley threw his hands in the air. Few captives showed him any interest. Most eyes were on the cook.

"What's she doing?" Blaine nudged Johnny, whose attitude had taken a sharp turn for the better. He'd practically inhaled his bread, shoving the entire thing into his mouth before it could be snatched away again as a cruel joke. And he was now humming rapturously after diving face first into a second helping of lamb stew. He came up for air far enough to peek over the edge of his bowl.

The cook had pulled a jar of pale, cloudy liquid from a wooden crate and was dumping it into the water buckets before her young helpers hauled them from cell to cell. They started with the women, handing them the ladles to drink from, to Miss Pillsbury's horror. Blaine looked curiously at his cellmate.

Johnny was gaping in surprise, which was unfortunate for Blaine, because he hadn't swallowed that last bite yet. Johnny realized it himself when he tried to speak and nearly let a mouthful get away. After rectifying that and wiping a palm down his beard, only to lick it clean while Blaine cringed, he hugged the bowl closer to his chest and stared at the cook with wide eyes. "Lemon," he said nonsensically.

"Beg pardon?" Blaine asked.

"She put lemon juice in the water," the sailor said with a reverence Blaine couldn't share.

He thought it a very odd thing to do, except as a prank on one's already sour-faced governess. Not that he had ever– "Why would she do that?"

"Keeps away the scurvy," Johnny mumbled around another mouthful, moaning sounds of ecstasy that Blaine thought a little disturbing. And Johnny wasn't the only one. Though a small handful of officers scowled relentlessly over their empty bowls and spitefully refused offers of more, the lower ranking sailors were happily gorging themselves. The superstitious grumblings had transformed into effusive praise, with Blaine's cellmate leading the pack of the cook's newfound admirers.

Blaine drank his fill of unpleasantly tart water when his turn came, with encouraging nods from Thad and Johnny, then sat with his back to the wall. He made a cushion of his folded blanket. Then adjusted it. And readjusted it. Until, after a painfully long hour of fidgeting, he concluded that he would go mad stuck in this cell for months. He'd never been good at sitting still, to the aggravation of his various tutors, and though he didn't know how much use he'd be as a crewman, anything would be better than being locked in a cage.

Scrubbing the deck was probably simple enough, if a bit labor intensive. Blaine wasn't afraid of hard work, so maybe he could try that. Except... on the Iron Fist it was used as a punishment. He'd seen men unable to straighten after hours spent kneeling over the book-sized sandstone, scouring the wooden deck until it was spotless.

For all he knew, it could be standard practice to reserve that chore until someone annoyed a superior, drank someone's grog, cheated at cards, or whatever else passed for minor infractions at sea. He knew it was a minor punishment because he'd also seen men flogged. Well, one man. Once was enough for him to never watch again.

* * *

Deep red wine swirled slowly around in its glass, glinting in the light and sending colorful shadows dancing across the floor, and thoroughly wasting its full-bodied bouquet on Kurt. He sat staring sightlessly over the rim, his thoughts turned inward.

Earlier, he'd asked Finn to find out if there were any male passengers in the brig who looked fit for work. As if he didn't know. It was embarrassing, even if he was the only person aware of the fact.

Impulsive actions weren't something Kurt was prone to, and he'd instantly regretted this one. Fortunately, his brother hadn't noticed the way Kurt had not quite met his eyes when he'd asked, but then Kurt had to go and make it worse by babbling an explanation, claiming that the passengers they'd seen in the past were irritatingly self-important society gents who'd never done an honest day's work and wouldn't know a yardarm from a mizzenmast. At which point Finn had started to look confused, so Kurt had dropped it.

Beautiful eyes and striking features had left Kurt irritatingly spellbound earlier, when he had much more important things to think about. He absently sipped his drink and frowned at its flatness. The glass was set aside and he stood to begin pacing, the click-clack of his boot heels announcing his agitation, had anyone been listening.

They'd lost two men taking the Iron Fist. That was the one aspect of this life to which Kurt would never adjust. Knowing that he was responsible for someone's death, whether directly or indirectly, weighed on him until he couldn't breathe. He stayed strong in front of the men, though, never for a moment showing how affected he was, until it got to be too much and he would lock himself in his cabin to grieve in private.

He could scream without making a sound.

As long as he kept his pain and anger buried deep, everything would be fine. Absolutely fine. He probably just needed a diversion. Yes. That would explain his ill-timed interest in a man he'd spent approximately two seconds looking at.

Sure, the stranger was handsome, and clean shaven, which Kurt happened to prefer. He was also well dressed and, frankly, not your standard, scruffy, unwashed sailor. Naturally he would stand out. That was no reason to take any special notice of him. Neither was his open expression, filled with unabashed curiosity and not the hatred Kurt was accustomed to seeing. So, he resolved to push any thoughts of the man out of his mind.  _Done. Problem solved._

He jumped at the sound of a sharp knock and scolded himself for daydreaming. Nevertheless, he walked, didn't run, back to his chair, crossing one long leg over the other and grasping the stem of his glass in a steady hand. "Come in," he called, giving the Burgundy another swirl.

One of Kurt's officers pushed open the door and took a single step inside, keeping hold of the brass handle. "Sir."

"Yes, Davidson, what is it?" Kurt set the wine glass gently down again, knowing he had no intention of drinking it.

"Mr. Finley sent me to tell you there are two able-bodied passengers aboard, sir." Davidson's jaw clenched.

Kurt wilted at the untimely reminder of something he'd only just determined to forget. "Thank you," he sighed wearily, then frowned. "Did you say two?"

Davidson gave a short nod, looking more stern than usual, if one could distinguish among his many levels of sternness. "Yes, sir. Mr. Finley is in the hold now, talking to the prisoners." He kept his eyes trained at a point over Kurt's shoulder. "If that's all, sir?" He made to leave.

"Wait." Kurt's hand fluttered in a shushing motion. "Did you see them yourself? Were they both gentlemen, do you think?" Hearing the blatant curiosity in his own voice, he winced inwardly, wishing he had let the officer go before he'd had a chance to embarrass himself further.

Davidson glared harder at the wall. "I believe one was a manservant, sir."

"Oh. Thank you." Kurt pictured the beautiful, expensively attired man and knew he was no servant. "Not that it matters," he added belatedly.

"If you say so, sir."

Kurt's brows knitted at the tone, causing the sailor's eyes to shift farther away. "Thank you," Kurt repeated sharply. "Is everything ready for this evening?" The coldness that Kurt usually reserved for strangers served as a warning to tread carefully.

"Yes, sir." Davidson's mouth tightened until his thin lips were non-existent.

"Good. You may go."

* * *

Up on deck, the men were unusually quiet, going about their work without ribald jokes or even a cheerful sea shanty. Kurt was similarly subdued as he passed by, returning muted greetings on his way to the galley, where the atmosphere was much the same. Sailors offered a quiet, "Captain," and went back to their meals.

The quartermaster was placing his empty dish with a stack of others to be washed later. "Captain," he said, and moved to stand next to him at the enormous cast iron stove. "Can I help you with that?" He reached for the bowl Kurt had picked up.

"No, I think I can manage. Thanks, Puck."

"All right. But I wouldn't let her catch you eating with the crew, unless you enjoy a good thrashing." Puck grinned lasciviously. "Some people do."

Kurt half-smiled. "I notice you're here." He gave Puck a knowing look.

"I have permission from the lady herself." Puck smirked back. "She enjoys my scintillating company." He curled both arms in front of his body and flexed his pecs to force a small laugh from the captain. Then, with a friendly swat on Kurt's shoulder, Puck headed back to his post at the ship's wheel.

"Captain!" barked the cook minutes later. Kurt nearly flung a spoonful of stew across the table where he'd been sitting, stirring his meal, lost in thought. "What are you doing in here? Did you serve yourself?!" She stood in the doorway, looking as menacing as any sailor aboard. More so when she turned a murderous glare on those unfortunate enough to be present in the galley just then.

"It's fine. I don't need to be waited on," Kurt insisted as she stomped forward and her two mess hands were able to slink through the door behind her. The boys carried a large, empty pot between them and immediately tackled the scrubbing, trying to make themselves invisible.

"How dare you sit there stuffing your worthless faces while your captain spoons up soup like a common kitchen maid, you filthy bilge rats!" Flatly ignoring Kurt's denials, she bellowed to the room at large until a dozen big, strong men shrank in their seats, necks disappearing into shoulders.

Aboard the Blackbird, there were three people upon whose bad side no one ever wanted to be: the captain, the surgeon, and the cook.

"Get! Out!" she yelled at her shipmates, who began mowing each other down in their attempt to escape. "Get out of my kitchen this instant! I'll boil your bollocks for breakfast! I'll use your entrails for shark bait, you good-for-nothing-but-cannon-fodder sons of a penny whore!" she continued at an unholy volume, ensuring no man slackened his pace on his way out the door.

"That's better," she sighed pleasantly, seating herself across from Kurt. "I love a man who can follow direction." She gave him a saucy wink. "Now," her warm tone turned serious, "how are you, Captain?"

"I'm fine, Zize," he said, which told her how bad it really was. They never used real names, especially at sea. It was his own rule, made to protect every member of the crew for the day they decided to turn their back on pirating. Only a handful of people aboard knew her as anything other than Cook, or Cookie if they liked to live dangerously – Puck. Kurt himself was the only exception to the rule, using his real first name, which Lauren privately believed was because he felt he deserved to be caught and punished. She also believed that anyone who tried would have to get past her first.

Kurt's feeble smile didn't fool her for one second, either. They'd been friends from the day they met; a couple of misfit kids who immediately clicked. It was for Kurt's sake that Lauren had insisted on taking over as cook aboard the Blackbird. He was already skin and bones, and growing thinner with every voyage until she could have picked him up by the scruff of his neck with one hand.

It wasn't just Kurt, though. All the men would return lighter than they'd left, looking sickly and half-starved and causing her unceasing worry. Lauren didn't appreciate being made to worry. Disease and malnourishment were rampant problems at sea, which didn't stop men from signing on to be sailors. She'd realized years ago of course that men were not very bright. But the stupidity of men did not stop women from loving them, and she loved Kurt like a brother. Maybe better. She didn't actually have a brother for comparison. Her hand slid across the table to cover his. "It's not your fault," she told him gently and watched with a sad heart as his eyes clenched and his head turned away.

Lauren patted his hand and checked to see that her helpers were minding their own business, which, of course, they were. Alex and Billy may have been a little too young yet to be promoted to crewmen, but they'd been with her long enough to know when to close their eyes and ears.

Giving Kurt time to compose himself, she got up and prepared a cup of hot tea with lemon, adding a generous spoonful of honey and a splash of rum, and sliding it in front of him before sitting back down.

His smile was sad now, but grateful when his hands curled around the tin mug. "O'Neill and Thomas," he said in a small, pained voice, watching steam rise steadily from the hot drink.

"I know," she quietly replied.

"Doc's getting them ready now." Kurt swept a finger and thumb under his eyes and cleared his throat, speaking more evenly. "Services at sundown. I expect to see every man on deck in a few minutes."

Lauren followed his lead and raised her voice. "We'll be there, Captain. Billy. Alex," she called, and the boys ran to her side. "Go down to the cargo hold and haul up another case of rum. We'll be sending our shipmates off to Fiddler's Green with proper toasts and sea stories tonight!"

"Yes, ma'am!" they chorused and dashed out the door.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Captain? You hardly touched your stew. How about a fresh bowl later while the boys fetch you some nice, hot bath water?"

Kurt picked up his dear friend's hand and brought it to his lips. "You are an angel." He shook his head. "I don't think I'll be able to eat a thing tonight. Just the bath, please, if Billy and Alex aren't falling down drunk after the service."

"Pshht. If they fall, it'll be 'cause I knocked 'em down."

* * *

Captivity was boring! And smelly, and itchy. Blaine scratched for the hundredth time at the short, dark hair on his face.

It hadn't started off so bad. He'd spent time getting to know his cellmates, Thad and Johnny and the other two, Trent and Nick. Thank heaven they never seemed to run out of adventurous tales to spin, and thank heaven there were neighboring cells for him to turn to if they did. If he'd been locked in here alone, he'd be banging his head against the bars of his cage until they were imprinted on his forehead. With any luck he would knock himself unconscious.

Except that Lady Luck had abandoned him. Fickle tart.

For the first couple of days, the captured sailors weren't really inclined to chat. Blaine soon wore them down, but he couldn't take all the credit. Like Johnny, the others began to look forward to meal times, and then they rediscovered something they hadn't enjoyed since early childhood. Naps.

Full bellies and no eighteen hour work days? Captivity wasn't so terrible as all that.

Of course, Blaine had never known the feeling of relentless, gnawing hunger, or years of being worked ragged, and he'd always been able to sleep when he was tired. To the sailors, it felt like a well-deserved break. To Blaine, it was prison, plain and simple. There wasn't even enough room to pace properly when the need to move burned under his skin.

He used both hands to scratch at his face and neck, scraping hard until his skin was red and raw, just to have something to feel.

"Why don't you run in place, or something?" Thad suggested.

Blaine took deep, calming breaths and looked at his friend. "Thanks. I would, except I'd be drenched in sweat inside of five minutes and none of us want that." He sighed and plopped down against the cell wall. He was spoiled, he'd decided.  _Well bred_ , he mentally mimicked his father, using an extra snooty accent for emphasis.

They'd been in here for a week. Never in his life had he gone a week without a bath and change of clothes. Never had he been denied exercise or fresh air or a close shave when he wanted them. This was good for him in the long run, then. Character building. That's what he kept telling himself, because these living conditions didn't seem to bother the others, except the ladies and the older gentleman, of course. Blaine knocked the back of his head lightly against the bars. He was soft. Like a woman. But even the maid didn't complain, only the 'proper' ladies. He groaned inwardly.

At least Blaine could honestly say he wasn't as bad as Smythe. When that man wasn't abusing his education to call the guards every derogatory term he didn't think they'd understand, he was complaining about the odor, or the cramped space, or being locked up with common sailors. And when he wasn't doing any of those, he was plotting. He and his two henchmen, as Blaine had come to think of the second mate and navigator, were forever forming elaborate escape plans. Being two cells away, though, Blaine couldn't hear all of it, thankfully.

So, Lady Luck hadn't  _entirely_  abandoned him. She was still out there, laughing.

It wasn't until the beginning of the second week that Mr. Finley came to pose the all-important question of who wanted to earn some time out of the brig. Smythe informed Finley in great detail exactly what he thought of him, and declared that none of  _his_  men would lift a finger for the pirate scum.

The well fed and unusually rested crewmen looked at each other, then at Smythe, and every single one of them started calling out to Mr. Finley to get signed up.

Smythe turned an unflattering shade of red, snarling orders at the men until someone across the way told him to shut his trap. "How dare you," he fumed. "I am the captain now!" Smythe stood tall and proud.

"Are ya now?" the old salt baited him. "Captain o' what?" Laughter broke out on all sides, causing Smythe to splutter furiously, demanding obedience. "Look around you,  _Captain_ ," the crewman called out sardonically, waving a hand at the room full of smiling sailors. "There ain't a man here who owes you a blessed thing, least of all obedience. Come to think on it, I'm owed wages for the last three months, and since you claim to take over for Cap'n Clarington, I reckon that means I'll be gettin' my share from you."

Smythe's nose went into the air. "You'll burn in hell before you get a penny from me."

"That so?" asked a heavily muscled sailor from the cell next to Smythe's. Red flush quickly paling, Smythe took a step backward, right into the three pairs of hands that reached through the bars on his other side to grab at his waistcoat. There was a shriek, and Smythe and his men stood with their backs to each other, keeping out of range of all but the two sailors who were stuck sharing their cell. Those two leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, enjoying the show.

Blaine felt sorry for them. He also felt very ashamed that the navigator, Mr. Stanley, was actually the reason he'd chosen the Iron Fist from between the two ships preparing to leave port the day he'd made his impulsive decision to travel abroad.

The officer he'd spoken to from the other ship had seemed nice enough, a brawny, obviously hard-working man, unlike the petite, dough-faced, acerbic Stanley. Blaine hated to admit, even to himself, that the idea of buying passage from someone whose over-inflated ego reminded him of his father, yet who possessed no authority over Blaine whatsoever, had held a certain immature appeal. He grimaced. He'd brought this on himself. Someone out there was teaching him a lesson for being petty and disrespectful, and this prison was his punishment. It all made sense now.

He was quiet while the crewmen took turns speaking to Mr. Finley and listing their skills, which were numerous and varied and incomprehensible to Blaine. They rattled off so many nautical terms it was like a foreign language. Blaine spoke Italian, himself. He doubted it would come in handy in this situation.

"And you were a passenger, Mr...?" Mr. Finley's question snapped Blaine out of his introspective mope and he found several pairs of eyes turned in his direction.

"Anderson. Blaine Anderson." He cleared his scratchy throat. "Yes, sir, that's right."

Finley's smile was friendly, if still awkward, when he looked at Blaine. "Traveling on business, or visiting family?"

"Neither," Blaine admitted. Beside Mr. Finley, an officer whose name Blaine didn't know raised his writing hand from where he'd been diligently taking notes and slowly pushed his spectacles back with a pointed finger, blue eyes peering at Blaine through the glass. The man slid a sideways look to Mr. Finley that spoke volumes about this being a waste of time. Nevertheless, his pencil returned to his logbook after a moment, poised to take note should Blaine happen to say anything worthwhile.

A welcome distraction arrived at that moment in the form of the cook barging through the door, already spouting off orders right and left as one of her assistants and a couple of sailors carted down food and dishes under her watchful eye. Johnny, for one, had eyes only for the newcomers, the question of Blaine's journey forgotten.

Mr. Finley turned to call out a greeting. "Morning, Cook. Where's Billy, is he sick?" He glanced around for the other young man who usually tailed her everywhere.

"Serving the Captain's meal in his quarters." Her expression was pure challenge, a warning he didn't heed.

"But he usually just grabs something from the galley, doesn't he? If he eats at all."

"That's right!" She pounced on the opportunity to vent, and a finger jabbed him hard in the chest. "He doesn't eat enough to keep a guppy alive and you let him get away with it! It ain't healthy and I've had just about enough!"

"All right, all right. Calm down, Cookie." Mr. Finley patted her arm. "I'll talk to him."

"See that you do. And don't call me Cookie! How are you this morning, Johnny?" she asked her biggest fan, going from fighting mad to sweet as honey in the blink of an eye. "Nice to see someone appreciates my work."

"Yes, ma'am," Johnny agreed wholeheartedly, taking a deep whiff of the delicious aromas filling the air.

Mr. Finley turned back to the prisoners, grinning. "So, Mr... Anderson?" He glanced at the blue-eyed officer for confirmation and received a nod, with a fair hint of exasperation thrown in. "You've never worked aboard a ship, is that right?" he asked Blaine.

"No, I haven't." Blaine refused to blush, grateful the first mate hadn't asked if he'd ever held any kind of employment, anywhere at all.

"Nevertheless, the captain is extending the same offer to you." Mr. Finley's smile was magnanimous – whether or not he knew what that meant. "If you have any interest, that is. Do you?"

Blaine's relief was complete and instantaneous. "Absolutely. Yes, I do. Yes," he confirmed, with perhaps more enthusiasm than was warranted. If there was one thing Blaine had always had in spades, it was enthusiasm.

"I'll put that down as a yes, then, shall I?" snarked the pencil-wielding pirate. He grinned at Blaine, who couldn't help smiling back.

"Yes, please."

"You understand you'd be expected to work?" asked Finley.

Thad developed a sudden cough so severe that he teared up.

"Yes, sir," Blaine gritted through a smile that was all teeth.

Mr. Finley cleared his throat, belatedly realizing he might have phrased that poorly. "Did you, uh, have any particular type of work in mind?"

Drooping shoulders gave Blaine away. "I could, maybe, scrub the deck?"

Finley's mouth fell open. "I'm not sure that's–" he began, and was quickly interrupted by the other officer.

"Would you mind showing us your hands?"

"Abe, what are you doing?" Mr. Finley asked him and was summarily shushed, a pencil waving in his face.

Blaine's cellmates craned their necks to peer over his shoulders as he reluctantly held out his hands, palm up, giving everyone a good look at his smooth, callous-free skin.

A soft whistle came from the cook. "Wish I had hands that pretty."

Finley shot her a look. "All right, let it go." To Blaine he said, "I don't think we need any deck scrubbing right now. Do you have any other skills?" he asked without a trace of sarcasm, which Blaine truly appreciated.

"Well," Blaine glanced around at the curious faces turned his way, as well as those pretending not to listen. "I studied philosophy at university," he offered.

"Why?" asked Thad, getting a punch in the arm from Johnny.

"I've also studied business, history, and science, including a little astronomy," Blaine went on, ignoring Thad, "and Latin, of course." He shrugged, his confidence beginning to grow at the slightly impressed looks of his audience. "I speak Italian and play the pianoforte. Not that you'd have much use for that," he trailed off, remembering where he was.

"Is that all?" asked Thad. Johnny punched him again and Blaine chuckled.

"As a matter of fact, I also sing and dance. I was thinking of joining the circus. Do you suppose they'd take me?"

"With a mug like that? No way."

Blaine wasn't sure if that was an insult or compliment. "Uh, thanks?"

"Got all that?" Mr. Finley asked, cocking his head to look at Abe's notes.

"School. Circus. Got it," Abe confirmed, making a small flourish in his logbook. Then he moved on to the next cell, while Cook pulled Mr. Finley aside for a few quiet words. Blaine watched nervously, attempting to look like he wasn't watching or nervous. There had to be something he could do. Anything. He'd think of something if it killed him, and if he had to wait in that cell until something came to him, it might. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I have a note about Johnny. I had researched while writing Chapter 1 and couldn't find a name for this Warbler, other than Beatbox, so I named him after the actor, Jon Hall. Later, I found out Beatbox's name is Richard James. So, for the purposes of this fic, his name is Richard John James, Jr., and he goes by Johnny.


	3. Methods of Torture

"No." The declaration was firm. Implacable. Predictable. "No, no. Absolutely not."

Lauren waited patiently through the anticipated hissy fit. She didn't say a word.

"No!" A tinge of desperation had crept in. The fit was winding down.

"It's a terrible idea. You know it is. Remember the last time?" He'd moved past denial and into negotiation.

"Please?" It took a strong constitution to resist that face. Lauren was a rock.

She stood and pecked a kiss onto Kurt's forehead before he let it thump to the table. "It'll be fine. You'll see," she said, walking to the door. "Expect us in the morning. Goodnight, Captain. Pleasant dreams." He didn't bother lifting his head to give her a one finger reply.

With a serene smile and the sure knowledge that this was for the best, she let herself out of his cabin.

* * *

Blaine was sleeping again. Goodness knew there was little else to do. However, he had a good excuse this time. Everyone was asleep. Snores could be heard from all sides.

"Psst. Anderson." He was wrong. Someone was awake and determined that he should join them. A noise that was a cross between a dog's whine and a horse's snuffle passed his lips as he rolled away from the offender.

"Lazy lout." Blaine shut out the muttered complaint. "Wake up." A hand grabbed his shoulder, pulling him forcibly onto his back. If Blaine could have made a fist, that guy would have been in trouble.

"G'way," he mumbled instead. He could punch the guy later.

"Cook's waiting." There was another impatient shove. "If you want her to leave you alone, you can tell her yourself."

That suggestion was disconcerting enough to open Blaine's eyes, slightly. "Wha?"

Alex was kneeling next to him. He rolled his eyes and spoke slowly. "Cook wants to see you in the galley in five minutes. Get off your butt."

"Galley?" Blaine sat up so fast the room went spinning. But when his vision righted itself, he could see people. There was someone standing at the door to his cell. He held a lantern that reflected soft light off the golden hair falling into his eyes. And a few others were in the room as well, preparing to rouse some of the prisoners from their sleep. He'd read once about people being abducted from their beds. "Somebody already took me," he protested.

Alex glanced at the lantern holder, who shrugged. "Someone took you to the galley?" he asked.

"Galley?" Blaine repeated, scrubbing the back of a hand across his eyes.

"Wow. Not a morning person, are you?" the boy observed.

"S'nighttime," Blaine denied.

"It's past four o'clock, and if we don't get a move on, we won't get to eat before the watch bell."

"What?" Blaine heard nothing after 'four o'clock.'

"Oh, for the love of–" Alex groused, looking older than his years, which Blaine estimated at no more than twelve. "Here." He held out a tiny dish of abrasive, powdery substance and a cup of water containing a short twig, finely cross-cut at one end. Blaine could have hugged the boy, sleep or no sleep.

He took the precious items, dragging the wet twig slowly through the powder to form delicate white trails, then jammed it into his mouth to scrub vigorously at his teeth and tongue, and everywhere he could reach. He gave a muffled, "Ohh," and looked at Alex. "Blesh you  _an_  your phlamly," he mumbled around the swirling piece of wood. Blaine finally understood how Johnny felt every time someone handed him a generous meal.

The blond was laughing quietly. Alex was grinning. "Hurry up," he urged. "Cook doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"Mmph. No. Yeah. Hurring. One shecond." Foam dribbled down his chin. It was marvelous.

The chill breeze they met with a couple of minutes later, after traversing narrow stairs and passageways, and a vertical ladder, was marvelous too. It was a soothing balm to Blaine's fresh-air deprived skin.

His head tilted back and he smiled hello to the sky above, still black, except for the brightly shining moon and distant stars. He heaved a sigh.

Lantern-man chuckled again behind him. "Yeah, it's a beautiful world we live in." Blaine was given a nudge in the back. "You know what else is beautiful? Not being on Cook's bad side. Let's go."

Cook had her back to them, stirring something in a huge pot on a huge stove when they entered the galley. Billy was there, too, slicing loaves of bread. He looked over his shoulder and waved his knife in a friendly manner. Alex headed straight for the cabinets to Cook's left and began pulling out small, open crates filled with clean dishes, and setting them on the countertop, within easy reach of hungry sailors.

Blaine remembered back when he used to have that kind of energy. Yesterday afternoon.

A low ceiling, combined with the large stove, and tables with benches lining two walls, made the room feel smaller than it was. Still, it was clean and warm and welcoming, with no iron bars.

Cook beckoned them to a seat. "Morning, Cook," the blond greeted her with a wide smile, a little too chipper given the hour, in Blaine's opinion. Don't get him wrong, Blaine was ecstatic to be out of his cell. But the only reason to be up at four a.m. was because you hadn't quite made it to bed yet.

"Good morning, Trout. Ready to play guard dog today?" She took a seat across from them, and Alex carried over a tray covered with steaming bowls and cups, setting it down in the middle of the table. Billy joined them with a basket of bread and crock of butter.

"Piece of cake," Trout replied.

"I think you're right. Anderson here is gentle as a lamb, aren't you, Anderson?" She offered him a cup of hot, black coffee, making herself his new favorite person.

"Yes, ma'am." Blaine was no fool. Cook was evidently responsible for his removal from the brig. On top of that, she'd just handed him this vessel of liquid perfection. She could have said he was an inbred Neanderthal and he would have agreed with her.

Fragrant steam wafted toward his face, to be breathed in and savored with each sip. The cloudy hum of conversation going on around him was a perfect accompaniment, and the last vestiges of restlessness and stress caused by confinement began to float away.

Alex was a nice kid, Blaine mused fuzzily. His classic features and straight brown hair reminded Blaine of one of his childhood friends. Then there was Billy, whose lilting accent made Blaine grin. Trout loved to laugh, Blaine could tell already, plus he had a mouth to inspire all sorts of wicked ideas, if one were well-rested enough to conjure them. And Cook was just plain wonderful; smart and forthright and fiercely protective. She had the heart of a lion.

"Anderson?"

"Hmm?" Blaine hit her with one of his irresistibly charming, slightly crooked, possibly not a hundred percent awake smiles.

"I asked if you're ready to get started?"

Oh. Was he supposed to have been listening while they talked? Well, he reasoned he couldn't have missed anything too important. After all, it wasn't like he was the decision maker here. His options were to do as he was told or remain in the brig. He beamed at her. "Looking forward to it, and thank you. I was going a bit stir crazy down there." Whatever was asked of him, Blaine would do it to the best of his ability.

Cook smiled back, so that must have been the right answer. "All right then. Billy will show you what's what." She nodded to the boy in question and he hopped up like she'd just tossed him a prize.

Blaine gulped down the last of his cooling drink before it was too late, only then noticing the dish of boiled oats someone must have placed in front of him. Alex scooped it up and dumped the untouched contents back into the pot, while Billy beckoned for Blaine to follow him.

The boy was efficient, there was no denying that, working so fast that Blaine could hardly keep up, let alone decipher the rapid-fire instructions given in his lovely brogue. Blaine watched closely while his new teacher showed him around the galley, pointing out the most vital supplies and all the careful steps that were taken to protect them, both from vermin and from the ship's constant motion.

In a matter of minutes, Billy had shown him how to prepare a breakfast tray, adding small copper tea kettles, one of boiling water and one of tepid, and placing the burden firmly into Blaine's hands. He then spun Blaine gently by the shoulders to face the door.

The tables had filled, Blaine saw. He spotted a few fellow captives in the crowd, each one seated amongst a group of pirates, who talked and gestured while the prisoner listened, hopefully better than Blaine had. He smiled and nodded at the ones who noticed him, walking slowly toward Cook and Trout near the exit, and trying hard not to spill a drop from the coffee cup or any of the other items weighing him down.

Before he reached them, his two escorts turned and left. Blaine glanced uncertainly over his shoulder, where Billy was urging him to a quicker pace. Blaine did so, following in their wake and keeping his eyes on the tray, his tongue caught between his teeth, where it tended to be when he was focused on a particular task.

Hardly looking where he was going, Blaine made it up all the stairs and through the passageways, proudly grinning at his success in keeping the coffee from sloshing over. Once again, Cook and Trout were waiting for him to catch up and chatting companionably.

When Blaine neared them, Trout pulled open a door, and the sudden blast of outdoor air was nearly Blaine's undoing. Only by the skin of his teeth did his luck – and his grip – hold.

At Blaine's cry of, "Whoa!" and his white-knuckled clutch on the tray, there was a hearty giggle from Billy.

"Careful there," he said, much too late to be of any use whatsoever, and earning himself a baleful glare in return. "Sure, never mind. You'll get the hang of it, so ya will. Be quick now, 'fore it all runs cold and you have to start again."

From his point of view as the butt of Billy's joke, Blaine found it difficult to appreciate the humor in it.

He scurried, there was no other word for it, as fast as his determination to not spill would allow, across a short expanse of deck and through another door. The wind he'd enjoyed earlier wasn't nearly so welcome now, when he wanted so desperately to not mess this up. He was as taut as a bowstring from trying to avoid spilling anything. Which was why, moments later, he was startled so badly that the whole tray almost crashed to the floor.

Cook was knocking on yet another closed door. Blaine had noticed aboard both ships now that there seemed to be some sort of rule about keeping doors closed at all times. He hurried closer, Billy hot on his heels. "Captain?" she called out, causing an ominous rattling of dishes when the tray jerked sharply upwards in Blaine's grasp.

He barely had the time or breath to squeak, "Captain?" before the door was opened and he was gaping at the man himself.

* * *

Kurt was going to have to kill Lauren. It was a shame, her being his best friend and all, but there was nothing for it. She couldn't have known, surely, when she made up her mind to foist one of the prisoners off on him against his will. Yet she had unfailingly chosen the one man that Kurt would have most liked to avoid from the whole bunch. Did his friend know him far too well? Or was he cursed? He would have liked to believe the former, but he knew this was just another hit in the never-ending cycle of punishment he called life.

He didn't look directly at the prisoner after that first, distressing glance. He concentrated instead on informing Lauren via telepathy that her time on this Earth was short and that now would be a good time for her to seek peace with her maker. Through his peripheral vision, Kurt could see that this meeting was equally shocking to the other man who, unlike Kurt, shared his feelings openly in his unmoderated expression. It was also apparently equally appalling, though undoubtedly for different reasons.

"Good morning, Trout, Billy," he said, stepping aside. "Cook." If looks could kill, he wouldn't have had to plan her demise by more physical means. She'd have expired right there on his doorstep.

"Morning, Captain," she cheerfully replied, as if it were any other day and not her last. "Did you sleep well?"

Ohh, she had a nerve. Kurt had thought to keep the murder painless, in consideration of her best friend status, but for that crack he might have to throw in a bit of torture first. On the bright side, it wouldn't do his reputation any harm to be seen as the cold-blooded bastard he was purported to be. Rumors could only do so much without the occasional physical evidence.

"As always," was his dry, ambiguous answer. Let the others interpret that as they would. Lauren would know what it meant, as confirmed by her subsequent worried frown. Served her right.

"Anderson!" she suddenly snapped, only then observing the hapless prisoner still standing, statue-like in the hall. "Bring that over here." She tapped the table with a blunt nail, her good mood having dimmed considerably. Kurt felt better already. Perhaps he wouldn't have to kill her, after all. Besides, he wouldn't be able to plot a suitable revenge if she were deceased. No, Cook would live to torment him another day. Kurt sighed inaudibly. He was too soft, letting people live right and left.

Hesitantly, the newcomer stepped over Kurt's threshold, looking surprised when he wasn't immediately struck down by a bolt of lightning. Then Cook's foot tapped impatiently and Anderson hurried forward, wisely understanding that she was more dangerous than any storm.

 _Anderson_ , Kurt tested the name, curling his tongue around the word inside his mouth, picturing it spelled out in his own neat, loopy handwriting, finding nothing wrong with it no matter how hard he tried. Why couldn't he have been named something distasteful? Like Spitzfarther or O'Diferous.

Now that the man wasn't facing him directly, Kurt allowed his gaze to roam, quickly and thoroughly, examining his prisoner as he might a new quill, looking for obvious imperfections before deciding whether or not to throw it out.

Anderson's beard was growing in, an unfortunate side effect of captivity. Prisoners were not to be trusted with something as deadly as a razor. It was also a sad fact, from Kurt's point of view, that most seafaring men, once they could grow a beard, chose to keep it. Fresh water was too precious at sea to be wasted on frivolities, according to some. Pshaw, said Kurt. Looking one's best was never frivolous.

Granted, the addition of short, tidy beards (there was never an excuse for an untrimmed beard if one had access to sharp implements) might be an improvement for some men's faces. Those with weak chins or droopy jowls, neither of which was a problem for Anderson. Under the week's growth of stubble, a firm, gorgeous jawline was still visible, as was the perfect chin. His was a strong, masculine face, offset by eyes that were almost feminine in their beauty, sparkling like clear water over a river of gemstones, and surrounded by luxuriously long, thick lashes.

The profile Anderson presented, standing by the table, looking out of the porthole at the morning sky, sparked exactly the type of futile longing that Kurt did not want to feel. If he was looking for imperfections, though, he was disappointed. On the surface, he could find none. However, if Cook had her way, Kurt would have plenty of opportunity to discover Anderson's hidden defects. A grating, monotone voice, or the intelligence and wit of a sea cucumber weren't outside the realm of possibility. Kurt could hope.

"Well then, Captain," Cook broke the lengthening silence, seeing that Kurt had no intention of assisting her in her latest scheme to manage his life. "Trout will be right outside your door, so you just go on about your day and he'll see to Anderson in your absence. Billy here will show Anderson the ropes to get him started. After that, he's all yours." She bit back a smirk, luckily for her, or Kurt would have been forced to  _re_ -reconsider her imminent journey to the hereafter.

* * *

Blaine turned nervous eyes toward the cook, who, it appeared, was about to abandon him to an unknown fate. Billy would stay, it seemed, though he didn't like how temporary that had sounded. Why did either of them have to stay? That's what Blaine wanted to know. Wasn't he to be working in the kitchen? Yes. Yes, there must be some sort of misunderstanding.

When she turned for the door, he followed in her wake, hoping against hope. Cook stopped and faced him with a frown. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To work in the galley with you?" he braved the question.

She crossed her hands crossed in front of her and lowered her chin, giving Blaine one of those patented looks that only women and hanging judges could pull off.

"And why would Captain Black's new cabin boy be working in the galley? You'll stay here and see that the captain has everything he needs." She shook her head in disappointment, and he inconveniently remembered his promise to himself to do whatever was asked of him to the best of his ability.

Being made into the personal servant of the pirate captain, however, had not occurred to him as a possibility.

 


	4. Issues of Abandonment and Other Things

The door closed quietly behind Cook and Trout after her parting admonishment to the captain to, "Eat something!" leaving Blaine to stare in dismay at the empty space where she had been. But not for long. Only until Billy grabbed his arm, hissing at him to snap out of it.

Snap out of it? Blaine felt like he was going to be sick. How could Cook do this to him. Hadn't they just bonded over coffee?

Feeling nervous and a little betrayed, he allowed Billy to show him quickly around the room, opening latched cabinets built into the walls, stuffing a face cloth and hand towel between Blaine's numb fingers, and giving pointed looks when explaining that the captain liked things, "Just so."

The intricately carved, mirrored washstand was last, where Billy began instructing Blaine on proper morning arrangements. "Cap'n likes it hot," he stated, drawing Blaine's attention away from the reflection of Captain Black sipping coffee and scratching notations into a logbook at the table as though he were some ordinary handsome man and not a scary criminal.

"What?" Blaine tried to recapture the words that had led up to Billy's pronouncement, forehead crinkling.

"Not too much, but," the young man went on, unaware he'd lost his audience some time ago. He was blending hot and cool water in the basin and testing it with a finger. "A wee bit for shavin'. Save the rest for his washin' up after."

"What exactly does a cabin boy do?" Blaine interrupted, leaning close and keeping his voice low.

Billy pulled a quizzical face, causing Blaine to wonder if his question might have been answered already during one of the many periods that morning when he definitely hadn't been listening. Fortunately for Blaine, the young man had been well taught to follow directions and not talk back. "Cook's after sayin' it's like bein' a valet and a butler and a house maid, all rolled into one." A shrug relayed Billy's lack of understanding as to precisely what those job descriptions might entail. They told Blaine what he needed to know, however, and he tuned out again when Billy returned to teacher mode, waxing philosophical about the best methods for preparing shaving soap.

"Cap'n shaves every morn." Blaine was poked in the arm and given a stern lecturer's gaze, one brow cocked and the other brought low. He recognized it from his Latin tutor, who had labored under the delusion that he could push knowledge into his student's brain with the force of his glare.

Billy, on the other hand, seemed to be expecting an argument against the captain's silly eccentricities, and was merely warning him off. When it didn't happen, his position suddenly reversed. "Ah, now, why he wants rid of perfectly good bristles, I couldn't tell yeh," he whispered, shooting a sideways glance across the room. "I'll be able to grow one o' me own soon." Billy puffed out his chest.

Resisting the urge to grin, Blaine pursed his lips, giving the boy's smooth chin serious contemplation and nodding in grave assurance. "It won't be long at all," he agreed.

"At all, at all." Billy beamed and soon afterward declared everything ready, turning his broad smile toward the table.

Captain Black looked up from his work. "Have you finished, then?" he asked with bland politeness. Billy didn't seem put off in the least by the captain's lack of friendliness, but the butterflies in Blaine's stomach didn't care much for the idea of having that non-smile aimed in his direction.

"Yessir, Cap'n!" Billy chimed. "I'll just be showin' Anderson around your wardrobe now, if ya don't mind, sir." He tugged Blaine over to the side of the room opposite the table, stopping in front of an enormous armoire without waiting for an answer to the evidently rhetorical question of whether his captain minded.

Billy unlatched the doors and swung them wide, taking a step back and revealing a selection of clothing and footwear that made Blaine's mouth fall open in awe. Shelves, rods and drawers filled the interior, suitable for storing everything the captain might need and probably a lot he didn't. No corner of space was wasted. It was packed to the brim with trousers, tunics, cravats, stockings, coats and shoes of all kinds. Blaine's gaze traveled longingly over a plethora of fine linen shirts, and a dazzling array of fitted waistcoats and breeches in every color imaginable, obviously modeled on the latest styles. Or, Blaine mused, almost laughing aloud with delight, more likely bespoke directly from the makers of French and Italian fashions that his former acquaintances tried their best to imitate.

Blaine was by no means a fancy dresser himself. There may have been a time or two during his younger days when he had allowed himself to indulge in something less conservative and more to his taste, but his father would frown every time and caution Blaine that it was unseemly to wear color. 'Black and white should be sufficient for any man,' he'd been told more than once, 'but I will allow that brown may occasionally suit for an informal outing.' Meanwhile, his mother would smile and tell him how handsome he looked. But this. This was a collection that Blaine, even at his most rebellious, would not have dreamed of bringing into his father's house.

"Beautiful," he breathed at last, turning a wondrous smile toward Billy and not even flinching from the other steady gaze that regarded him through the mirror.

* * *

_Focus, focus, focus._ The pointless mantra repeated itself in Kurt's head, helping him not one whit. On the table in front of him lay his logbook, which he kept his eyes on with effort. So far, he'd managed to write the date and his name – well, his alias anyway – along with the name of the ship and their approximate location. In other words, nothing.

He would not look toward the washstand, where Anderson stood with his back to Kurt, or allow himself to be distracted by well-fitting garments covering muscular thighs and a trim waist. No. Kurt sipped at his coffee, keeping his face impassive and his breathing even.

Previous entries in the book detailed their voyage so far, and he slowly scanned through them, trying to read, since he couldn't write. If only his imagination would stop conjuring impossible scenarios. Because, from somewhere in the back of his mind, had come a little tidbit of knowledge that he was trying hard not to think about. But once the idea was there, it implanted itself firmly and wouldn't go away.

Kurt was a pirate. Anderson was his prisoner. Technically, he didn't need his victim's consent.

If Kurt wanted to have a prisoner's wrists tied above his head and attached to an iron ring in the middle of his bedroom ceiling, who would stop him? Certainly not Anderson. He could only shiver and plead while Kurt slowly, carefully snipped the buttons from his shirt. With Kurt's chest against his back and both arms around his lean body, one splayed hand could slide sinuously upward from Anderson's taut abdomen, pulling him closer still, the other following close behind with a tiny, jeweled dagger that would slice through cloth and thread like it wasn't even there.

Kurt would whisper into his ear, 'No one can save you,' and Anderson would give in, his head tipping back onto Kurt's shoulder. His eyes would flutter closed and his panting breaths would become shuddering moans. And one by one the buttons would fall, clinking to the floor to skitter away out of sight.

'But you don't want to be saved, do you?' Kurt's feather soft words and warm breath in his captive's ear would draw a gasp of pleasure. 'Do you, Anderson?' The quiet demand would be met with a small shake of the head and breathless surrender, Anderson's trembling body going limp in Kurt's arms.

The dagger would drop to the floor and Kurt's insistent hands, pressing against skin grown hot with need, wouldn't pause in their slow caresses. They'd stroke and clench at the lightly muscled chest and follow Kurt's hooded gaze downward, pushing their way past a gaping shirt toward the prominent outline of swollen flesh that begged for his touch.

"I'll be able to grow one o' me own soon." Billy's excited voice shattered the quiet peace of the room, and Kurt was grateful for it. Of course he was. He shouldn't be thinking such things. Anderson was his prisoner! His responsibility. And Kurt was already a wanted man. Did he really need 'sexual deviant' added to the long list of his crimes? Everything else he'd ever done would be nothing compared to that. If there was anyone out there still praying for his soul, they'd be damning him to hell once Anderson's story got out.

With a swift shake to clear his head and his expression, Kurt looked up. "Have you finished, then?"

"Yessir, Cap'n! I'll just be showing Anderson around your wardrobe now, if ya don't mind, sir." Kurt made a small gesture of consent and rose to begin his morning routine.

He moved by rote, giving no indication of his wayward thoughts. The dressing gown he wore over his night clothes was sufficiently thick to disguise the effect of his imaginings, and Billy wasn't looking at him anyway. Anderson, it seemed, wouldn't.

Billy had opened the armoire, Kurt saw through the mirror, then moved aside so Anderson could get a good look at what he'd be dealing with: Kurt's pride and joy, not that he'd admit it. He waited, silent and still.

For some reason that he couldn't explain, it was very important for him to see Anderson's reaction. Would he laugh? Sneer at Kurt's outrageous vanity? Or would he only see a huge amount of work being heaped upon his previously unsuspecting head.

"Beautiful." The soft whisper let Kurt breathe again, and echoed his own feelings when his captive turned, wearing the most stunning smile he'd ever seen. He might have intended the smile for Billy, but Kurt felt it to his toes when their eyes met through the glass and it was transferred to him. The admiration Kurt saw reflected there was something he'd never received from anyone before.

He'd been humored or scoffed at by some, and his 'quirks' accepted or unnoticed by others. Never before had anyone shown true appreciation of the beauty and variety Kurt had spent so much time and money to cultivate into his wardrobe.

Suddenly, Kurt could envision dressing his captive in the finest clothing and jewelry, taking him to the most exclusive shops in Paris and Milan, giving him anything his heart desired. Strolling arm-in-arm with him across the bridges of Venice.

But of course, Kurt could do none of those things.

Ruthlessly, he pushed aside the yearnings that would lead to nothing but heartache. His time and creativity would be better spent devising a suitable retribution for Lauren. Step one: determine how deliberate her selection of Anderson was for the post of cabin boy. Did she take one look at him and say to herself, 'He's exactly Kurt's type. What a perfect opportunity to tease and torment him with something he can never have.'

That was unfair, though. Lauren would never deliberately hurt him and Kurt knew it. However, he could believe that she would let herself imagine all sorts of ludicrous outcomes. Her over-inflated sense of romance would have jumped from 'Kurt's type' to 'Kurt's soulmate' without regard to reality. He could never pursue a relationship, due to the simple fact that he was a wanted criminal. Lauren seemed to forget that salient fact when it didn't suit her to remember. It was also an unfortunate truth that most men were not attracted to other men and would sooner kill Kurt than kiss him. Lauren, bless her ridiculous heart, imagined that anyone would consider himself lucky to have caught Kurt's eye. History had proven her wrong.

So, had Lauren chosen this specific prisoner because she envisioned a romantic ending for Kurt? Or was he the one being ridiculous? Maybe she'd chosen him because he was the best candidate for the job of cabin boy.

Though Kurt still didn't think he needed a cabin boy, even he would have to agree that it was unfair to ask Alex and Billy to take on any additional burden. Their kitchen duties already filled more hours of the day than the two boys should have to spend working, and Kurt wouldn't dream of taking one of them away from Lauren. She depended on them. The fact that they never complained was all the more reason to reward them with free time, rather than punish them with extra work. That was why Kurt did as much for himself as he could.

The flip side of that coin was that his self-sufficiency drove Lauren up the proverbial wall, which wasn't so bad, and she never let Kurt hear the end of it, which was very bad. She was bound and determined that he should be treated with the deference due him as Captain and, furthermore, that he should expect and accept nothing less. It was exhausting arguing with her.

Kurt pondered his friend's wishes and motives while clearing the unwanted stubble from his face. It was much safer than pondering the other insidious thoughts drummed up by his body's unwelcome urges. His gaze flicked to Anderson, who was getting an in-depth description of the armoire's contents. As in-depth as Billy was capable of, anyway.

The gentle twitch of Anderson's mouth at Billy's not-quite-accurate and in some cases just plain wrong terms for Kurt's impressive assortment of accessories, gave Kurt hope that this cabin boy nonsense might have one or two benefits he could actually take advantage of.

At the same time, the tight knot that formed in his gut at the sight of those smiles made him ache for benefits that were off-limits.

* * *

Blaine was smiling too much. Relaxing his guard and taking these people at face value was a mistake. He knew that. Yet here he was, fighting off another grin when Billy pointed to a selection of expertly crafted cufflinks, referring to them as, "Cap'n's doodads."

 _They're pirates!_  Blaine grimaced. He could  _not_  let himself forget that. Pirates lie and cheat and steal. They make people walk the plank for entertainment. Probably. Maybe that one was hard to imagine, but they were still pirates. They pillage and plunder!

All the air leeched slowly from Blaine's lungs.

 _He_  could be plundered. Right here in this very room, in fact.

There was nowhere to run.

Captain Black could, in theory, plunder the stuffing out of him. Again and again.

It must get awfully lonely out at sea for weeks on end. The four-poster bed tucked into an alcove in one corner of the room looked extremely sturdy. So did the table. Roomy, too. Then there were the walls. The floor.

"Is it warm in here?" he mumbled, tugging at his collar, head spinning with ideas that hadn't previously occurred to him.

Who needed such a big, heavy, sinister looking table in his bedroom? It was even bolted to the floor, like the bed, so it wouldn't move, even under strenuous, vigorous use. Blaine swayed on his feet.

"Here, now, Anderson. Are yeh well?" Irish brogue made the words of concern sound kind of adorable to Blaine's foggy mind. He was tempted to pat Billy on the head, though he doubted the boy would appreciate it.

He cleared his throat, casting a nervous look toward the captain. Butterflies erupted again in his belly at meeting a cool blue gaze. Shaving soap covered half the captain's face, but his eyes stayed on Blaine while another stripe was scraped clean down his jaw.

"Fine." His voice squeaked off at the end and he coughed, jerking his gaze back to the harmless man-child. "Fine," he tried again, hoping his discomfort wasn't horribly obvious.

Billy, looking dubious, let Blaine save face by changing the subject. "Right," was all he said before turning to the captain. "Cap'n, sir. What'll ya have today?" The question puzzled Blaine, who kept quiet and went back to admiring the wardrobe on display. It was the safest thing in the room to look at.

"Something simple today, I think, Billy." The captain's smooth voice blended with the slow scraping of the blade across his skin. Blaine's eyelids felt heavy at the sound. "The sienna bombazine with pagoda sleeves, please."

"Aye, sir." Confusion was written on Billy's face. He stood next to Blaine, staring into the wardrobe without moving, watching the clothes as if the chosen article would present itself.

Blaine waited, glancing between armoire and boy, and darting a quick look over his shoulder before he stepped forward and took down the specified item, handing it to a grateful Billy.

"Heh," the boy laughed nervously and turned again to hold it up for the captain's inspection with only a little doubt showing. "This one, then, Cap'n?" he asked.

"Yes, that's it," Captain Black quickly confirmed and went back to his shaving. Billy grinned.

"Britches, Cap'n?" he asked next.

"Yes, please," came the reply, causing Billy to giggle and Blaine to frown. Was that a joke?

"I meant  _which_  britches, Cap'n?" laughed the boy.

"Oh, well then, you should have said that, Billy," Captain Black calmly replied to his reflection as the razor was dragged carefully under his chin. Blaine was completely befuddled. Was that a reprimand? Because it didn't dim the wide grin that split Billy's face from ear to ear. "It's shaping up to be another warm day," said the captain. "Choose something light for me, will you, Billy?"

"Yes, sir!" With a poorly executed, yet enthusiastically delivered salute, Billy turned to the clothes again. And froze, looking uncertain.

He stepped forward and reached out tentatively to touch a pair of pale gray, woolen trousers, glancing sidelong at Blaine.

Blaine shook his head minutely.

Rough fingers glided down to rest on pair made of a more lightweight fabric in blue-green, and again Blaine was silently consulted.

Tilting his head slightly, Blaine gave him a disbelieving look, as if to say, 'With sienna? You can't be serious.'

Billy sighed and tried again. His fingers hovered restlessly over the wide selection, narrowing in on the browns and whites while keeping an eye out for any negative reaction. Slowly his pointing finger came to a stop on a pair of casual sailor's pants done in natural linen. Blaine smiled. He could just picture it now. The consummate pirate, standing on deck and looking out to sea with soft, loose fabric billowing around his legs in the salty breeze. He'd need a pair of high, leather boots to tuck them into so they wouldn't get in his way. Blaine wouldn't want the captain to trip. Maybe a sash to tie around the waist of his shirt, so it could remain untucked and flutter enticingly around the seat of his trousers.

Blaine began to browse for the items, handing his selections off to Billy without taking his own nose out of the armoire. There was so much to see! Reluctantly, he wrapped up his search with the final touch, a set of plain bronze cufflinks. He turned to show them to Billy.

Except it wasn't only the boy that he saw. Captain Black had finished his shave and was watching them. He was running a soft, damp cloth over his face to clear the last dots of soap from his skin and staring straight at Blaine, who looked back with wide eyes, hoping fervently that the captain wasn't in the mood for some entertainment out by the plank. Blaine presumed there was a plank somewhere onboard. It would look odd, though, just sticking out of the side of the ship, waiting for someone to walk it. Did they attach and detach it with every use? Or did the pirates line up and hold onto it, standing on one end rather than nailing it to the deck, so they could bounce and tease and laugh at the terror inflicted on their latest victim? Blaine swayed on his feet again.

Captain Black turned away. "That looks fine. Thank you, Billy."

* * *

It had been a strange day. It certainly gave Blaine plenty to think about as he lay in his cell that night, watching a speck of light from the guards' lantern dance hypnotically among the shadows on the ceiling.

He'd survived. On a ship full of pirates, men as dangerous as a pack of wolves, if rumors were to be believed. Even though he'd been thrown to the alpha wolf, as it were, he'd survived his first day as a cabin boy.

Captain Black had left as soon as he was dressed that morning. Blaine blushed again at the memory of how he'd gasped and spun to face the other way when the far-too-attractive-for-Blaine's-peace-of-mind pirate had walked over to the foot of the bed where Billy had laid out his clothes and let the robe slip from his shoulders to pool around his bare feet.

Of course, there were nightclothes underneath. Blaine hadn't turned fast enough to miss that, any more than he'd missed the way the dark blue silk had clung lovingly to a tight, trim body. A man would have to be dead or straight to not notice something like that, and Blaine was alive and well.

The captain hadn't come back to his cabin while Blaine was there, which should have helped him relax, but didn't. Having lacked any clear direction on how to proceed with his cabin boy duties, Blaine had tidied the room while Trout plopped down on the floor, leaning against the door frame and looking half-asleep. Blaine might have been insulted by the lack of vigilance if he'd given it any thought.

As it was, the captain had kept his mind too preoccupied for things like that. Blaine was both afraid of him and drawn to him. Although he didn't want to be afraid, he knew, logically, that only a fool would not be, which meant that his fears were based on preconceptions and not on the evidence of his own eyes. And that bothered him too.

What did he know of the captain? Well, for starters, he was a pirate. There was no escaping that. He'd also attacked the Iron Fist, killed Captain Clarington, apparently, and imprisoned the rest of them. All excellent reasons to fear the man.

Yet he'd shown the prisoners no cruelty at all. Neither had his crew, which spoke volumes about their captain's character. If not for Clarington's death, Captain Black would be guilty of nothing more than stealing whatever it was he had presumably taken from the Iron Fist, and inconveniencing the people aboard. The pirates hadn't even hinted that Blaine or the other passengers might be held for ransom, which they easily could.

None of it made sense to Blaine. There must be pieces to this puzzle that he didn't know and wasn't likely to learn. All he could do was work with the information he had. Namely, that Captain Black was cold and emotionless. Or so said his eyes. But did that necessarily make him evil? Or could it be possible that he didn't know how to connect to other people? Or simply didn't want to?

Most importantly, why did Blaine care so much?

A quiet sigh passed through him. His thoughts were going in circles. In the end, he still didn't know whether to feel relieved that the pirate seemed to have no plans to kill him, or disappointed that the captain seemed to have no plans to kiss him.

And with those conflicting feelings making no headway against each other, Blaine finally drifted into a restless sleep.


	5. The Best Medicine

.~.~.~.

 _'No. No, please,'_  someone was whimpering. Kurt couldn't tell where it was coming from. Everything was hazy. Not that it mattered. He knew what there was to see, and he knew there was nothing he could do about it. Even clenching his eyes closed wouldn't help.

If he looked around he'd see people, all bigger than him. Grown-ups. None of them were looking. They kept working, like they didn't hear the whimpers.

Kurt's father was there, too, talking to someone. He didn't hear it either, and Kurt couldn't tell him. He couldn't call out or go over and tug on his daddy's hand. He couldn't do anything but watch.

The boy looked at him then. His sad eyes were dry. His lips didn't move, though Kurt could still hear someone making those sounds. When a large hand came to rest on the boy's shoulder, he turned back. He didn't try to push the hand away when the thumb moved up and down on his neck. Kurt could tell he didn't like that. It made Kurt scrunch up his shoulders and wish the hand would stop.

He didn't understand why the boy let that man do things he didn't like. That wasn't his daddy, Kurt could tell, and the boy was older than Kurt – almost as grown up as some of the other people. He was small though; kind of short and skinny. He should get some muscles, so he could fight bad people if they tried to hurt him. Kurt's father always told him to eat his vegetables, so he would grow up big and strong. Maybe the other boy's father forgot to make him eat his vegetables.

The big man saw Kurt looking at them. It scared him when the man smiled. He wished his father would finish talking and take Kurt somewhere else. But for now, Kurt stayed where he was, one hand tight on the ship's rail like he'd been told, being extra careful so he wouldn't fall in the water.

Suddenly there was a lot of noise. The big man was shouting at the other men, telling them what to do. The ship was moving faster and faster. Everything felt so strange and fuzzy. Men were rushing back and forth, floating without moving their legs. Sometimes they would disappear and pop up somewhere else. They were cloudy and hard to see.

Only the boy and the big man and Kurt's father were still normal like him, not fuzzy or floaty or popping in and out, or trying to make the ship go faster, so the land would get farther and farther away. Kurt was worried they might get stuck in the middle of the ocean and never be able to leave.

None of the fuzzy men took any notice when their boss bent down to say something in the boy's ear. Kurt's father didn't see it either. He'd been talking to someone for a long time. Kurt couldn't see who it was.

He didn't know what the man said, but he didn't like it. Whatever it was, it made his tummy hurt, like that time when he had a fever and all of his dinner came back up.

The boy was looking down at his feet while the boss man talked to him. He started to shake his head and Kurt was glad, but the hand was still there and it moved to the back of the boy's neck and held on tight until the boy stopped shaking his head.

When the hand finally moved away, Kurt could see red fingerprints and he got mad. He wanted his father to yell at the bad man and tell him he couldn't do that. His father wasn't afraid of anything. He could beat up the bad man if he didn't stop. But Kurt's father wasn't looking, so he didn't know he needed to fight the bad man who was yelling something at the boy now and shoving him away.

Kurt started to cry. The boy had turned, walking in the direction the boss man wanted him to go, no matter how loud Kurt tried to scream at him to stop. Something bad was going to happen, Kurt was sure of it, if the boy went through that door he was walking toward.

The boy didn't listen, or he couldn't hear Kurt screaming, and he reached for the door handle. But before he opened it, he turned back to face Kurt. They looked at each other and the boy smiled at him. He didn't blame Kurt for being too little to help. It wasn't his fault. Then he went through the door and was gone.

.~.~.~.

Kurt awoke gasping and panicked, jerking up in bed, sweating and nauseous. His panting breaths were loud in the quiet cabin, and there was wetness on his face.

No matter how many times he relived it, the nightmare never got easier. This time, it had actually been worse. More real.

He didn't know how much of it was based on actual memory and how much was his mind trying to fill in the blanks. What he did remember was the day, all those years ago when he was traveling with his father, that there was a massive manhunt aboard the ship they were on.

Every person was on deck for a head count. One was missing.

The crew had searched all day, scouring every inch of that ship. Kurt and his father had to stay on deck, out of the way. Crates were opened, trunks overturned, men questioned. Even casks of grog were checked, but he'd known they wouldn't find the boy. He had escaped.

Kurt swung his legs over the side of his bed, thrusting his elbows down onto his knees and pressing curled fists against his leaking eyes.

At the time, he'd been happy, he remembered that very well, glad that the boy had gotten away and too young to comprehend what it meant to disappear from a ship at sea.

That night, as he and his father had sat in their cabin, Kurt had told him not to worry, that the boy was okay now. His father had been so upset, and Kurt had tried to comfort him by telling him that the bad man wouldn't be able to hurt the boy anymore after he ran away.

Kurt would never forget the growing horror on his father's face as he'd asked question after question and Kurt explained everything he'd seen and thought.

He knew now what it must have cost his father to not confront the captain, but he had refused to let Kurt out of his sight for one moment. Not even to beat the ever-living-hell out of that man, as he must have so badly wanted to do.

Kurt's father was neither a fool nor a weakling. He'd spent the rest of the voyage talking to the crew, subtly questioning them about the boy, and writing everything down in a journal at night until they put in at the ship's home port a few weeks later.

Kurt and his father had gone straight from the docks to the local magistrate, where the journal had been handed over, and a very frightened Kurt, strengthened by his father's hand holding his, had told the halting and confused tale of how the bad man would touch the boy, even though Kurt didn't think he liked it.

Years later, Kurt had learned that his father hadn't stopped there. As a longtime dock worker turned foreman, Burt Hummel was well known and respected in the shipping community. A few words in the right ears would ensure that a suspected child molester was closely watched. No other boy would be hurt by him without someone knowing. And the close-knit group of sailors who'd lived and worked together for most of their lives, would not let another incident go by unpunished. Whether the authorities did anything or not, the captain would pay for his crimes.

Kurt was frustrated that the memories were still with him, now that he was awake. He climbed out of bed and dressed quickly. There wasn't enough air in his cabin. He had to get out of there.

Two minutes later, he was clutching a siderail and gulping in deep breaths of salty air. His stomach was still churning, and he didn't want to be belowdecks if it decided to purge itself of its meager contents. His hands were trembling and he could feel eyes on him, gauging the stiff posture that didn't invite questions. The night watch left him in peace while he collected himself.

He waited until his stomach had settled enough for him to leave the railing, then his shaky legs took him in the direction of the galley. It was almost morning, judging by the moon's position. Talking to his best friend would surely make him feel better.

No one bothered him along the way, or commented on his red-rimmed eyes and sallow complexion. If Kurt's crew, those who hadn't known him for half of his life, suspected that their captain might not be the heartless bastard he was generally believed to be, well, they kept it to themselves.

* * *

Lauren was at the stove, where she spent a good deal of her time, when she heard footsteps in the passageway. It must have been later than she'd thought. Normally, breakfast was half ready by the time the boys were up, but here she was just bringing water to a boil after stoking the fire.

She glanced over her shoulder, surprised to see Kurt enter the galley looking haggard and ill. "Captain!" she cried, her work forgotten. She was with him in seconds, hurrying across the kitchen as fast as she'd ever done to clasp his arms and look into his face. If she didn't know better, she'd think someone had died. "What is it? What's wrong?"

He summoned up a sickly smile. "Why does something have to be wrong? Maybe I was hungry."

"Tch," she scoffed. "Don't give me any of your nonsense. What happened?"

Kurt's face slowly crumpled, breaking her secretly soft heart right down the middle. "Oh, honey, come here." She tugged him none too gently into her arms, where he sobbed softly, burying his face in her shoulder.

"It's nothing," he complained in a muffled voice full of self-directed irritation. "A stupid bad dream! I have those all the time."

"Shh," soothed Lauren, softly patting his back. "You're allowed to cry, you know."

"Pirate captains do not cry," he sniffled.

"Posh," she scoffed again and kissed his hair, blinking away the moisture from her own eyes. "Captains can do whatever they wish, and anyone who doesn't like it can swim home."

Kurt giggled tearfully. "You should be Captain and I should be the cook. Think of it. You could terrorize an entire ocean full of men, instead of only this ship."

"Hmph." The idea did have merit. She spent a quick moment considering the possibilities. "You're too scrawny to be a cook," she decided. He chuckled a little less tearfully, still accepting her bone crushing hug.

"Why are you so good to me, Cookie?" He turned his head to rest his cheek on her damp shoulder.

"Because you're the best person I know," she answered without hesitation, "and don't call me Cookie."

Kurt laughed again. "You obviously don't know enough people."

"I know the ones who matter. Don't argue with me or I'll stick my thumb in your stew."

Kurt hugged her tight. "I'm not afraid of you."

"That's because you don't know where my thumb has been." With that rather disturbing assertion, she guided him to a bench. "Now, sit down. I have some juicy gossip you won't want to miss." She went to finish preparing the coffee, cheered by the sound of Kurt's gentle, nearly tear-free laughter. She put on a wicked grin to encourage more of it and pretended not to notice the puffiness around his eyes as he dabbed at them with a kerchief.

"Don't keep me in suspense." He accepted a mug of the steaming brew he loved so much.

"Well..." she began, dragging out the word for added drama. One could never include too much drama in the telling of juicy gossip. "This morning I decided to take a short stroll on deck before starting work."

"Most people would call three a.m. 'last night,' not 'this morning,'" he piped in.

"I'm an early riser. Don't quibble." Lauren sat next to him with her back to the table. "Anyway, there I was, taking the air and minding my own business."

"I doubt that. Was Puck showing off again? Is that where this is going?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Her nose stuck into the air. "That scoundrel is probably still sleeping off last night's ration of rum and snoring fit to wake the Kraken."

"You would know his sleep habits better than I."

She glared. "Who's telling this story?"

"I beg your pardon. Please continue. You'll not hear another peep from me. No, ma'am. Not one sound. Not even the veriest whisper of –"

"Shut it!" Lauren swatted his arm and Kurt put on his 'perfect innocence' face, which he did very well. "Cheeky," she huffed. "As I was saying," she glared another warning. "...What was I saying?"

"Morning. Air. Own business," Kurt dutifully recited.

"Yes!" Her palms rubbed together gleefully and she hopped to her feet. This story would require show, as well as tell. "So, there I was," one hand swept slowly through the air, "walking."

"You said that already."

Lauren's hands planted themselves on her broad hips, a common signal to those around her to stop talking or start running, or both.

He made a locking motion against his lips, tossing the imaginary key over his shoulder.

"When out of nowhere," Lauren continued, looking from side to side, "came a dreadful moaning," she declared, throwing in a dash of spookiness. This was turning into a campfire story. "'Oh, no!' thought I." Her eyes widened and fingers flew to her cheeks. "Have the spirits come for us? Have we, indeed," she stared frightfully at Kurt, "angered the lost souls who tread, night after night, upon the water that took them from this earthly life?" Lauren gasped. Kurt's eyes rolled. She missed it.

"'O' Spirits! Do not take my brethren!' I cried to them. 'If it is a sacrifice you require, take me, an innocent maiden.'" She flung her arms wide. Kurt choked on his coffee. She didn't miss that.

"You have something to say?" Hands met hips.

Kurt's lips disappeared into his mouth and he shook his head.

Lauren huffed. After several years as Kurt's best friend, she was a well-practiced huffer, able to impart a world of attitude or put-upon weariness in a single puff of air. "I thought not." She fell back into character, clasping her hands together over her chest. "I begged them to show mercy," she exclaimed. Kurt nodded along. "I did it for  _you_ ," she emphasized. His lips vanished.

Lauren's eye twitched. "Hmph. The spirits didn't answer," sighed the poor, misunderstood maiden. "What could I do?" Her helpless look said there was nothing. "I decided to seek them out and  _make_  them accept my extraordinarily generous and completely selfless act of love for my shipmates."

Kurt blinked. The lips had not shown themselves again.

"Bravely, I crept closer to the tormented, ghostly visitor from beyond." She crouched, tiptoeing between one table and the next. Bravely.

"The otherworldly sounds led me toward the bow and I began to fear, most desperately," she assured, "that one of our own unfortunate night watchmen had already been taken. And even," she cast Kurt a look of hopeless fright, "that our beloved Blackbird herself had fallen victim and was being steered into the realm of the dead, with a ghostly sailor at the helm."

Lauren paused, watching Kurt expectantly as he sipped his coffee. "Ahem," she insisted.

"Hmm? Oh, sorry." He put down his cup and cleared his throat. "Dearest Cook, say it isn't so!" he supplied.

"It  _is_  so," she confirmed with relish.

"But then, how did you save us?" Kurt let his eyes widen. Audience participation was key.

"Silently, stealthily, I moved closer," she informed him, demonstrating her stealth in the quiet kitchen, "determined to banish the spirit or die trying."

Kurt gasped appropriately. "No!"

"Yes!" cried Lauren.

"Did you make it to the helm, then, and fend off the ghost?" He gestured at her to indicate that she was, in fact, here in the galley, and presumably unsacrificed.

"I did, indeed, make it to the helm, where my eyes were met by a sight too horrible for words." A hand slapped over her eyes.

"Be brave, my dear." Kurt sneaked another mouthful of coffee.

Lauren nodded jerkily in her overwrought state. "It was," she sniffed loudly, "Jack!" Both hands slapped over her face. Kurt peeked at the clock attached to a shelf on one side of the room. Four o'clock. They should have enough time to let this drama play out. The watch bell wouldn't ring until half-past.

"It was worse than I ever imagined," came her muffled voice. "Poor Jack. Possessed by an unknown force." Lauren peeked over her fingertips and spoke through a gap. "Powerful, like a Siren," she whispered, blinking back invisible tears. "A Siren that only he could hear. She had ensnared him within her dreaded clutches." Her fists clenched over her mouth.

"How could you tell it was a Siren if you couldn't hear her call?" Kurt went along, curious.

"Because–" she paused. "Oh, it's too awful!"

"Be strong." He checked the time again. She was really working for this punchline.

"He was in some sort of trance," Lauren gestured helplessly. Kurt translated the motion into 'dozing,' which seemed unlikely. Puck would have his brother's head if he found Jack asleep at the wheel.

"He was," she turned away bashfully, "doing things."

"Things," Kurt repeated, brows knit in confusion.

Lauren nodded, eyes closed. "To the wheel," she whispered.

Kurt's eyebrows shot up. "Beg pardon?"

"It wasn't his fault!" Lauren was still deep in character. "The Siren – it must have tricked him. He thought it was the creature that he held in his arms. He must have!" she staunchly defended the absent, and evidently bewitched, Jack.

"What sorts of  _things_  did he appear to be doing?" By now, Kurt wasn't certain he wanted to know.

"Oh, Captain," she sniffled, defeated by her inability to withstand such interrogation from her esteemed leader. "Do you recall the ship's wheel, Captain?" Her wide-eyed gaze pleaded with him not to make her say it.

"Yes?" he confirmed hesitantly.

"Then perhaps you'll remember the handles that protrude all around its perimeter?"

Kurt was starting to dread the end of this story with a sort of horrified fascination. "Yes."

"Well, Captain, my Captain," she caught his eye roll that time, "I can think of no reason, except for poor Jack's being under a Siren's spell, for him to be licking one of those, um, protrusions," she finished with delicacy.

Kurt gave himself a minute to contemplate that visual.

"Captain?"

"Licking, you say," Kurt stalled, still contemplating.

"Unwillingly, I assure you, Captain."

"Naturally," was the distracted reply.

"Um, Captain. I hesitate to mention this," she attempted to look reluctant, "but I'm afraid there's more."

Kurt grinned. This was turning into one of her better stories. He'd forgotten all about his reason for being in the galley at this hour in the first place. "More? Tell me everything," he quickly demanded. "Er – so we can see that the young man receives the proper help," he concluded more slowly.

* * *

Anderson was not an easy man to awaken when dawn was still a couple of hours distant, Alex was learning. However, with some helpful tips from Trout, he found that a handful of water, if thrown in the face just right, was quite effective.

What Trout failed to mention was that Anderson might swing first and splutter after, teaching Alex a valuable, new lesson about waking a man who had grown up with an older brother, who was fond of pranks.

"Sorry," Blaine mumbled to the young man who was glaring at him from his good eye, while Trout was doubled over outside the cell, shaking with silent laughter.

* * *

 _This must be what sleepwalking feels like_ , thought Blaine a few minutes later. He was walking, he could feel his feet moving, but he wasn't convinced he was awake. Too many hours had passed the night before while he lay staring into space, thinking the unthinkable and calling himself every kind of fool.

He told himself it was nothing but childish rebellion kicking in again, urging him to do things that would guarantee his immediate disinheritance. That was a lie.

If all he wanted was to incite some paternal rage, he could have brought home any man to introduce as his  _special friend_. He certainly didn't need to leave the country to find one. There were enough discreet clubs back home, where men of his persuasion tended to gravitate.

No. Blaine's true reason for this voyage was a desperate, driving need to be accepted for who he was. The thought of ending up like so many others he'd met was unbearable; married to women and drinking themselves into oblivion in order to perform their husbandly duties, then hieing themselves off to men's clubs to pick up strangers and forget for a while how miserable they were.

For years Blaine had tried to convince himself he could handle it. He would marry a girl of his father's choosing, it didn't matter who, and raise a brood of children. Unlike the others, though, he would be faithful, because he didn't have it in him to be anything else. Also because he would owe it to her, whoever she was, after dooming her to a loveless, passionless life. Faithfulness was the least he could give her.

It was a terrifying prospect, made worse with each year that passed and each young lady he was blatantly paraded in front of until, in the end, he couldn't do it. He ran, convincing his parents to let him go by telling them that all his friends were touring Europe after finishing University and before settling down, which was true, and letting them believe he'd toe the line when he returned, which was impossible. He wouldn't be returning.

Blaine wanted to fall in love. He wanted to know joy and passion and completeness. He wanted the freedom of self-expression. Somewhere in the world was a person who could give him all of those things, who would be his missing half. He had hoped that, with a little luck, they would find each other soon.

His sleepwalking feet had continued to follow Alex while his mind wandered, and they were nearing the galley before he was roused from his melancholy.

Someone was laughing. A flat out, uninhibited, completely infectious laughter that brought a smile to Blaine's face despite having no idea what was so funny. Alex made a dash for the galley, and Trout went around Blaine to run ahead and get in on his share of the fun, too, leaving Blaine to slowly bring up the rear. Oddly, he felt as though he was about to intrude on a private, family moment.

Coming up on the door, he could hear others, as well. There were a handful of voices in chorus with that one joyful sound that had swept through Blaine like a blast of emotion. It was more than he could resist, and he quietly moved closer, telling himself that he really had no choice. Trout and Alex were his escorts and he was required to stay with them. It wasn't only that single, inviting voice drawing him in. That would be silly. He was a grown man, not a pet to be called by its master, no matter how fast his heart raced at the sound. None of his internal reasoning would keep him from looking, however, if only out of curiosity. The man, whoever he was, sounded so thoroughly happy. Blaine simply had to know.

But he was utterly unprepared for what he saw.

Cook was standing in the middle of the room, hips gyrating in a suggestive manner and arms wrapped around herself, stroking her own sides in a bizarre show of self-love. Her eyes were rolling up into her head and her tongue was waving about, doing lewd things to the air.

Over near the stove, Billy was on the floor, curled up into a wheezing little ball. Alex was already laughing, too, though still in control of himself, while Trout was scooting closer to Cook and starting to mimic her movements, probably preparing himself to retell the story later.

Most shocking to Blaine was that, sitting on a bench a few feet from Cook, with his back to the table and profile to the door, Captain Black was bent over, forehead pressed to his knees and hands over his face to try to hold back his shrieks of laughter.

Blaine stared at the pink-flushed curve of his neck. He watched in disbelief as the captain struggled to catch his breath and peek up at Cook, only to lose it again when he saw her.

He was still staring when the captain noticed Trout and his head jerked toward the door. He saw blind panic turn to inexplicable fury in a heartbeat. Unable to look away, Blaine could only stand there, open-mouthed, glued to the spot when the captain brushed past him and pounded up the stairs. Blaine was too lost in shock to realize that the captain was running away. He was too busy trying to wrap his mind around the fact that the captivating laughter he'd heard, the sound that had slapped him square across the face and left such a smile there, had come from Captain Black. Blaine had wanted it to never stop.

The sudden quiet didn't sink in. Neither did the Cook's rapidly evolving expressions that went from surprise to disappointment to worry to anger in short order.

Everyone else caught on immediately, of course. Trout and the boys wisely set about making breakfast without a word while she scowled fiercely and Blaine remained obliviously trapped within his own thoughts.

She finally stormed over to the stove, where the others were quick to get out of her way, and began banging pots around with unnecessary force and throwing a haphazard meal together for the men to eat at their own risk.

* * *

How long Blaine might have stood, unmoving, in that spot, he had no idea. It was Trout who put a hand on his shoulder and led him to a table, where he turned a blank look on his friendly guard.

"He'll get over it," said the sailor with a small, comforting smile. "The captain might be angry right now, but he'll see it isn't your fault."

A feeling of hysteria rose within Blaine, threatening to rip through his chest. The man he'd thought frigid and emotionless was neither of those things. Captain Black had friends, and a sense of humor, and a beautiful laugh. So beautiful, that being fearful of his sudden anger hadn't crossed Blaine's mind at all. There was a very good chance he was going insane.

A tray was slammed down on the table under his nose, and Blaine nearly jumped right out of his skin. Above him was the cook, leaning menacingly close. Her eyes bored into his as she slowly sat down across from him. Behind her, the boys fluttered about nervously, preparing dishes to place gently on the table before snatching their hands away, as though to linger might cost them an arm.

Blaine didn't dare look away from the cook, so he was able to feel the full impact of her slow, dangerous smile.

"Good morning, Anderson," she said, her voice frighteningly dark.

"Morning?" His quiet response tipped into a question of how good it was.

Cook leaned back, watching him through slitted eyes. "Do you know why I'm here, Anderson?"

The question mystified him, but he had a strong feeling that 'to cook' was not the right answer. His sense of self-preservation returning, he went with something safer. "No, ma'am."

"I am here to ensure that certain people are kept happy and healthy." Her eyes narrowed until he shrank slightly under the pressure. "People who happen to be very important to me."

"Yes, ma'am." Blaine thought that was admirable. He could only hope he hadn't done anything to interfere with her achieving that goal.

"You might look at this crew and think we're nothing but a bunch of soulless thieves and murderers," she said. Blaine's head shook in automatic denial. "But I look at this crew and see my family." She leaned in again. He backed away at an equal pace. "I would do anything to protect my family, Mr. Anderson."

"Yes, ma'am. I respect that, truly. And I can assure you that I have no intention–"

"You have been given a very great deal of trust aboard this ship, Mr. Anderson," she cut across his gibbering as if he hadn't spoken. "You have received a privilege that no one else can claim." Her expression went from threatening to disappointed, and that hurt more than he could have imagined.

"If you believe for one moment," she went on, "that I would place the responsibility of the captain's personal care into the hands of just anyone, you are severely mistaken, Mr. Anderson." He wished she'd stop calling him that. Yesterday, it had been a nice, friendly 'Anderson.' Now he was reduced to a cold, formal 'Mister.'

In all his years, he couldn't remember a single one of the  _you've let me down_  speeches from his father that had affected him this way. He felt about two inches tall and yet had absolutely no idea what he might have done wrong. "Yes, ma'am." He swallowed past the lump in his throat.

"I'm going to give you another chance, Mr. Anderson," she graciously offered, and he breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief. "Not for you, but for the captain," she explained. "I can't always be there to look out for him. So, I am counting on you, Mr. Anderson. Do you understand?"

Blaine nodded, not really understanding at all.

Her smile reappeared, still hinting at a quick retribution should he make one wrong move. "That's good," she informed him. "Because I promise you that if you ever hurt  _my_  captain in any way," she paused to let her eyes go flinty, and spoke with deliberate slowness, "I will remove your appendages, one at a time, cook them up, and feed them to you."

A cold shiver passed down his spine like an icy finger. Clearly, he had been worried about the wrong pirate all this time. He could see now why the rest of the crew made such a point to avoid angering her. Still, he hadn't the foggiest idea how or why she thought  _he_  could hurt the  _captain_ , when the reverse seemed so much more likely.

The fury in the captain's eyes came unwillingly back to Blaine's mind and he shivered again. Cook had just said she was giving him another chance, meaning he'd be face-to-face with that fury any minute now. Why had he felt relieved at that?

He was definitely losing his mind.


	6. Whys and Wherefores

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I got questions on FFnet after that last chapter, so I thought I'd post the answers for everyone. :)
> 
>   1. Burt is alive and well and not a pirate. He isn't on Kurt's ship.
>   2. Blaine was escorted back to his cell after his first day of work, same as the other prisoners. They aren't going to let him go free just because he's so darn cute. Probably. Yet.
>   3. Kurt got angry because he was embarrassed to be caught being all human and adorable. Humiliation induces anger, and it can cause some strange behavior.
>   4. Lauren was angry because her favorite person was happy one second (after a lot of effort on her part) and miserable the next, and Blaine was the trigger. It wasn't rational or fair, but it was how she felt.
> 

> 
> Ask more questions anytime. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Hardly a word had passed Blaine's lips since being pulled from a sound sleep that morning. How then, in the space of a few minutes, had he managed, evidently by his mere existence, to infuriate both the captain and the cook, earning himself some very unpleasant threats of dismemberment and death? And shouldn't that alone have been enough for anyone to have to deal with?

But enough wasn't enough for Blaine. Oh, no. He had to top it off by developing a crush on the most unlikely and unsuitable person imaginable, who, Blaine felt confident, was also dreaming up a nice, painful ending for him at that very moment. A miserable groan slipped out at the thought.

A sharp elbow to his ribs jerked him out of his musings and back to the situation at hand, which was an angry woman and an uncomfortable group of men, all expecting some kind of response from him, it would seem. The warm, hazel eyes, so earnest and trustworthy, that had served Blaine well his whole life without his being fully aware of it, were put to good effect then, when he directed a piteous look at Cook's tight-lipped face. "I'm sorry," he told her. Although he'd done nothing wrong, Blaine did regret the end result of showing up when he did. He had a feeling that the kind of unreserved display he'd witnessed from the captain that morning was something rare and special.

Cook sighed and shook her head, visibly letting go of her anger. "Don't be. It wasn't your fault. I'm afraid I get a tad overprotective at times," she ruefully admitted. Blaine privately agreed, if you could call a mother bear ripping out the throat of an innocent passerby in order to guard her cub a 'tad overprotective.'

She nudged the tray that sat between them on the table. "Get a fresh coffee for the captain and take him this tray, please, Anderson." She smiled, an expression that was much nicer without the murderous element to it.

"Yes, ma'am." Blaine returned her smile and fetched a second steaming mug. He picked up the tray, preparing to follow Trout, then took a fortifying breath. "I wouldn't deliberately hurt anyone." The words were true, only not what he really meant, which was that he didn't want to hurt the captain. Considering the bare facts, those at the surface at least, it was hard to believe. But, looking into the eyes of the captain's self-appointed protector, he had a feeling that she knew he meant it.

"I'm counting on that." She waved him on, only to call out to him on his way through the door. "Anderson!" He craned his neck back with a questioning look, and she jabbed a finger in his direction. "Make sure he eats," she ordered, smirking at the look on his face.

Lauren waited until he was gone before allowing a huge smile to grow from the spark of hope that warmed her heart and, she fervently wished, would begin to thaw that of her dearest friend.

* * *

Kurt threw himself face down onto his bed to indulge in a short sulk – not something he did often, but he was having one hell of a morning. Without the tight lid he kept on his feelings at all times, they were liable to display themselves shamelessly for anyone to see, thoroughly embarrassing him and making it necessary for him to flee the country. In disguise. He might have to grow a beard. He shuddered.

How long had Anderson stood there, watching him cackle like a drunken hyena? Kurt's hands flung forward to grab a soft, fluffy pillow and slap it over the back of his head. Maybe he would suffocate before any stupid, sexy, unwelcome cabin boys came knocking at his door. Kurt sighed. The way his day was progressing so far suggested that he wouldn't be so fortunate. Odds were, Anderson would show up while Kurt was pouting into his mattress. His hands disappeared under the down-filled cushion for a good, cathartic yank on his hair in place of the scream of frustration he wanted to let loose. Before that could happen, he jumped off the bed to pursue a more dignified pastime. Pacing.

It didn't help.

Fleeing the country wasn't exactly an option at the moment, either. What Kurt needed was to be still and calm and to wipe all traces of his earlier reaction off of his face, pretending that the morning had never happened. Denial was a wonderful thing. What would he be doing on a normal day, if no horribly attractive strangers had witnessed him behaving like a loon?

Sitting! He plopped down at the table.

Seconds later, his forehead fell into his palms. Why would he be sitting?

To work! He snatched a logbook out of the locked cabinet near his table and tried to make himself concentrate.  _A ship's captain has many important things to do_ , Kurt recited helpfully to himself.  _If only I could remember what they are_.

The pages blurred before him, coming sharply back into focus when he growled down at the troublesome paper. Yesterday's entry was worthless. He'd have to do better than that, cabin boy or no cabin boy. Kurt growled again for good measure, stifling a giggle at the ridiculous sound and dropping his chin to his chest. "Arrgh," he tried, and laughed, and frowned. He was becoming hysterical.

 _Calm_   _down!_   _Think about_   _work before you really_   _do_   _turn into a deranged lunatic._  With that in mind, he began to write. First, he noted the indirect route they were taking to reach their destination. Puck and Jake,  _Jack_ , he wrote, because real names were only acceptable in his head, had planned out a circuitous path that would confuse any captives who might try to determine their heading. It was a risk, letting them out of the brig, but it felt too cruel to keep them locked up for months, even if they were prisoners.  _Guests!_  Lauren would often correct him.  _They are not under arrest!_  Kurt somehow doubted they would see the distinction.

Thinking of Lauren brought a smile to his face. Jake was going to be on the warpath when he learned that he was the star of her latest tall tale, and not reflected in the most flattering light. He snickered at the memory of Lauren pleasuring an imaginary ship's wheel.

With the familiarity and comfort of his work routine, and his mind less consumed by his own troubles, Kurt slowly began to unwind, feeling more in control of himself. He was nearly ready to face Anderson without having a panic attack. So what if the man had been witness to Kurt's temporary lapse? No one could have withstood Lauren's clowning without laughing a little. Besides, he could have a laugh if he wanted to. It was his ship. Anderson could try to spread stories, but who would believe them? No one! Kurt was a confirmed misanthrope, and everyone knew it.

The real problem – the secret problem and the one Kurt planned to keep that way – was that he felt  _too_  much, too deeply. He'd been a sensitive child, whose temper had turned volatile and erratic. It was often only his father's calming influence that had kept him in check when the slightest provocation could throw Kurt into a fit of epic proportions.

It started when he was very young. He had lost his mother, and for that first year or so it had felt as if he was always on the verge of tears. He began to distance himself from friends and bottle up his pain. While his tender mind railed against the unfairness of it all, he flip-flopped between clinging to his father, the only stability he had, and hiding in his bedroom, suffering from the paralyzing fear that if he loved his father too much, he would lose him too.

He never talked about his fears with anyone, convinced that to speak of them might make them come true. The first real indication his father saw of Kurt's inner turmoil was when they were out for a walk one day. Kurt was holding his father's hand, as he often did when they left the house, ensuring that his only remaining parent stayed safe. They were meandering through the park when the sound of a horse's whinny drew Kurt's eye. He loved horses, and his father had promised he could have one when he got older. But this mare was skittish and dancing nervously backwards, with her rider cursing and kicking her flanks.

Kurt instinctively took a step in that direction, ready to soothe the distressed animal, when the man atop the horse brought his crop down in a vicious slash across the mare's rump. Kurt screamed and ran, heedless of either the startled horse or the swinging crop. By the time his father was able to pull him away, he was crying and yelling at the top of his lungs, pounding his little fists as hard as he could against the man's lower leg, the only part of him that Kurt could reach.

His father carried him home and held Kurt while he cried, while they both cried, and Kurt demanded to know why bad things happen. A question that had no answer.

As he grew older, Kurt's emotional state remained fragile, and his control over it was always tenuous. It was an effort to stop him from trying to attack someone if he believed an injustice was being dealt, which, unfortunately, happened often. Everyday occurrences, like the scolding of an incorrigible child by an impatient adult, were magnified in his mind. Kurt had seen nothing wrong in his desire to punish those he saw as  _bad people_. The tremendous respect Kurt had for his father did allow Burt to teach him the difference between real and imagined harm, as well as better ways to help than physically attacking people, but it took time.

Obsessively observant of everything that went on around him, Kurt was distrustful of strangers and a passionate defender of innocents. But beneath his self-righteousness lurked a relentless rage at those who would harm others, at fate for taking his mother, at the law for allowing evil men to walk the street, and at the world in general for ever causing pain. All those things led him toward the events that helped shape him into the man he was.

It just so happened one morning that Kurt was in the right place at the right time to see one of those real injustices his father spoke of. He'd been out patrolling the streets, as he thought of his daily walks, when he witnessed a girl of eight or nine being snatched from her governess's side.

Only fifteen himself at the time, and never very big for his age, Kurt nevertheless didn't pause to consider the danger. Something inside him snapped, and he acted. There were two men, the carriage driver and the child snatcher. And while the startled governess took precious seconds to react with a cry of alarm, Kurt was quick enough and determined enough to grab onto the waiting carriage as the kidnapper jumped inside, the screaming girl in his arms.

The driver immediately whipped his horses into action, unprepared for the whirlwind that was Kurt hurtling into his face with flying fists and a chip on his shoulder the size of Mount Vesuvius. What a sight they must have made, careening down the street, a grown man being walloped by a boy gone mad, followed before long by the yells of men on horseback, passersby who were spurred into action by the hysterical screeching of the frantic governess.

It hadn't been the best laid plan, taking the child from a public place in broad daylight. The criminals might or might not have escaped with their victim if Kurt hadn't intervened, which didn't lessen the gratitude of her doting parents. The girl was pulled into a crushing hug by her father and wept over by her terrified mother when they descended on the sheriff's office, much as Kurt was hugged to within an inch of his life when his own parent came tearing into the room, needing to see with his own eyes that nothing had happened to his boy.

Kurt had remained on an adrenaline high for hours, practically twitching with the need to run out and save someone else, but prevented by Burt's iron grip. Only after the questioning was over was he calm enough to endure a hug by the girl's parents without complaint. He brushed off their praise, but the father would not hear of letting Kurt go unrewarded. The man was a wealthy tobacco farmer and his daughter's kidnappers had probably hoped to extort an enormous sum for their crime. Money was the least he could give to the boy who'd saved her life. Eventually relenting, as it seemed he would never be allowed to leave otherwise, Kurt accepted the offer.

He knew nothing about investments or money or how best to use it, but he did purchase the horse he had always wanted. One or two dashing riding outfits were also necessary, of course. Nothing too delicate, in case he had to wrestle more kidnappers to the ground. Now that he could cover much more area in a short time during his patrols, it was also important for him to become a proficient rider, able to leap swiftly on and off of the back of his beloved horse and crime-fighting partner. And so, his days were spent practicing in the park with the help of a recently acquired step-brother, while his father invested the rest of his reward money on his behalf into, appropriately, tobacco. Kurt detested the smell, but he was fine with letting his father invest there, as long as he didn't have to go near the stuff.

* * *

"Make sure he eats," Blaine grumbled, not for the first time, and scowled at the suspiciously shaking shoulders of the blond guard walking ahead. "How am I supposed to  _make_  him do anything, I'd like to know?" Blaine said to the pirate's back as they neared the captain's stateroom.

Trout stood to one side and aimed his amused gaze at Blaine's unimpressed person. "Well, you could try that kicked puppy face again. Worked on Cook, and she's not an easy one to charm." He knocked firmly on the door.

Blaine gave him a blank look. "What kicked puppy face?" He was almost positive there was an insult in there somewhere.

"Come in." The captain's quiet command saved Trout from answering, which his wide grin said was deliberate, and Blaine got back to the important business of worrying about his own skin. His last sight of the captain had not been very promising, though he'd been too flabbergasted at the time to think beyond the smiles and laughter that had held him in thrall.

"Not bad," said Trout, examining Blaine's face. "A little less fearful and a bit more pathetic," he suggested impudently, pushing the door open in front of Blaine and making himself comfortable in the passageway.

Timidly –  _since when am I timid?_  – Blaine stepped into the room, not knowing what he'd find there. His eyes immediately sought out Captain Black, who was at the washstand, apparently having just cleaned his teeth. A sharp bite of mint was in the air, teasing Blaine's senses.

"Put it over there," the captain directed when Blaine failed to think of it on his own. He pointed toward the table.

Blaine tore his gaze from the man's reflection and awkwardly entered the room, giving Trout one last glance. "Good luck," mouthed the blond, before Blaine was shut into the cabin and his attention centered back on the room's other occupant. The captain had turned and was drying his hands on a towel, regarding Blaine coolly. There wasn't a trace of humor, unfortunately, or anger, fortunately, remaining on his face. Blaine looked away after a few painful seconds and set down the tray.

"I've brought your breakfast," he said, wincing at his own inanity. Surely he'd been more intelligent than this before he went to sea.

"Have you eaten?"

Blaine jerked around at the question. "Uh, what? Sir?" Blaine's head shook minutely to clear the fog that made words sound like something else entirely. His eyes widened when the captain tossed the towel aside and came closer.

_This is it. He's going to strangle me now. Less messy than bullets. I wonder if he feels any regret about having to off a perfectly good cabin boy. I hope I'm a good cabin boy. Or am I only the latest in a string of prisoners Cook has thrown to the Captain like a toy for his entertainment?_

"Sit."

Hazel eyes blinked uncomprehendingly. "What?" Blaine repeated, noticing with gratitude that he was still alive.

"Sit down!"

Blanching, yet weirdly fascinated by the display of temper that confirmed the pirate's capacity to feel, Blaine sat. Captain Black was wearing his familiar blank mask, despite the raised voice, and Blaine politely chose not to glance at the red-tipped ears visible in his periphery. A deep inhale caused the captain's chest to expand, his shirt to tighten, and Blaine's focus to stray.

"Anderson."

Blaine's gaze jumped back guiltily. "Yes, sir?"

"Do you know why you're here?"

 _Oh, no. Not this again._  "To... make sure you eat?" If Blaine hadn't been looking right at him, he'd have missed the dimple that appeared and disappeared in a flash. His fascination with this new, responsive captain grew exponentially.  _I wonder what I'd have to do to get a whole smile._  A few ideas popped into his head.

The enigmatic captain took a seat at the other side of the table, looking impassive again. Blaine was beginning to suspect that he wore that look on purpose to hide his true personality. He was probably kind and generous underneath his pirate persona. Either that, or Blaine was making excuses for him. He eyed the cleft in Captain Black's chin from a couple of feet away, noting that it was slightly off-center and currently sprinkled with mouth-watering, golden brown stubble. He licked his lips, more and more convinced that the captain's image was an act.  _No one that cute is allowed to be an evil, murdering blight on mankind._

Blaine would be willing to bet a month's allowance that the tip of his tongue would fit perfectly into that tiny cleft. A day's growth of beard would add spine-tingling texture, and the taste would be salty sweet with a subtle hint of yesterday's shaving cream.

"You're right."

Blaine's musings on tasty facial divots derailed, he tried to recall what he might have been right about. He'd lost the thread of the conversation somewhere, and the captain's expression gave nothing away except what Blaine chose to see there. Knowing that his own thoughts were probably plain to see, his cheeks grew warm. "Sir?"

"You might have noticed that Cook likes the crew to be well fed," said the captain.

Blaine nodded. "Yes, I have noticed that. It's not just the Blackbird's crew. One or two of the men below seem happy to stay locked up for as long as Cook will feed them." Blaine grinned and watched the other's gaze drop briefly to his own mouth.

"Was the fare that bad on the Iron Fist?"

"No. No worse than I expected. At least, not for the passengers." Blaine frowned. "Actually, the crew's treatment might not have been up to the same standards."

For a moment, it looked like the captain wanted to ask something else, but he held back. "It wouldn't surprise me," was all he said. "But on this ship, Cook takes it as a personal affront if anyone goes hungry, and she isn't always willing to take a person's word for it that he isn't." The dry tone drew another smile from Blaine.

"So, what you're telling me is that Cook thinks you're too thin," Blaine spelled out, "and you disagree." He could hardly believe the relaxed conversation they were having. It was like this morning had never happened.

"You might also have noticed that she's a difficult woman to argue with," the captain confirmed in a roundabout fashion.

"How can I help?" Blaine's inner conspirator cheered. As much as he liked Cook, when she wasn't threatening to cut off his dangly parts, it was hard to overcome a lifetime of rebelliousness. Plus, his rebellious streak was one of his favorite things about himself.

Captain selected a coffee before a fingertip nudged the tray an inch or two in Blaine's direction. He leaned back in his chair and looked steadily at Blaine. "You can enjoy a little extra of Cook's hard work."

A startled laugh escaped Blaine before he could stop it. "You want me to eat your meals for you? At the risk of sounding like a certain overbearing, motherly type, isn't starving yourself a bit unhealthy?"

"Nothing quite so drastic," the captain contradicted, while Blaine tried not to be distracted by the sight of him enjoying his morning drink. His attention span used to be much better. "I was thinking more of a subtle assist. Nothing to draw suspicion."

It struck Blaine as truly funny that this big, bad pirate would go to such lengths to avoid the nagging of one female. "I believe I can manage that." He glanced at the untouched breakfast and back to the slender captain. "How hungry would you like to be this morning?"

There was a twitch of lips, Blaine was almost sure of it. "Half a bowl should hold me until lunch."

Blaine had no qualms about showing his own sense of humor. He smiled openly. "Yes, sir. After you've had your fill, of course." He stood, not bothering to push the tray back toward the captain. It might be construed as nagging. "I'd better get your shaving soap ready before the water cools." Blaine picked up the copper kettle and checked to see that it was still hot. "Will you want fresh clothing?" He looked askance at the outfit the captain must have thrown on before going to the galley that morning. It looked like he had literally picked up the first things that came to hand.

"Might as well. It's laundry day." Captain inclined his head toward the voluminous armoire. "Someone will be by this morning to collect it," he said, referring to the drawstring bag that Billy had instructed Blaine to use for the captain's soiled clothes, though he'd also muttered about the wastefulness of changing clothes 'every blessed day.'

* * *

Captain left the door open on his way out a little while later, and Trout took the opportunity to stick his head in. "He hasn't killed you yet?" Pale brows rose in mock surprise.

Chuckling, Blaine went to raid the cleaning supplies. "He had other things to do today," he said, snagging a bottle of polish to work on the floor.

"That's a relief. It's always me who has to mop up the guts." Trout heaved a sigh of vexation. "Do you know how hard it is to get guts off the ceiling? I'll thank you to keep your insides where they are." He slid down the doorframe until he was sitting with his legs blocking the exit.

"I'll do my best," promised Blaine, shaking his head at the perpetually tired, yet good humored man.

An hour later, Trout's soft snores accompanied the methodical swish of a polishing rag. The repetitive motion was hypnotic, and Blaine was a mile away, even as his arm continued in a slow, smooth circle across the gleaming wood.

He was kneeling on the floor, remembering that morning's shave. Not his, of course, but Captain's. It was strange that he had never noticed how erotic the sound of shaving could be. He'd sifted lazily through a stack of shirts, enjoying each soft scrape of the razor and the spicy scent of soap.

There was the slow scritch of metal against skin, the dunk and splash of rinsing, and the silent wipe against a fluffy towel. Then Blaine would wait, hand poised over a shirt he hadn't bothered to look at, until the cycle started again. At the end of the ritual, Blaine had to scramble to find something for the captain to wear, and used the excuse of not watching him change clothes to hide his blush.

Blaine's reverie was suddenly interrupted by loud, clunky footsteps at the other end of the passageway. Most of the floor was done by then, though he could hardly recall cleaning it. So, he climbed to his feet and balled up the rag, hurling it across the room and into Trout's slack face with a satisfying 'thwap!' It came flying back with impressive speed, hitting Blaine in the chest before he turned away to wash his hands.

"Working hard, I see," a snide voice sounded from the hall. In the mirror, Blaine saw a dirt-smeared redhead looking between himself and Trout. "Bet you're enjoying the view." His attempted sneer was less than intimidating.

Trout, completely unfazed by the sailor's rudeness, pressed his back into the doorframe and slid upward to a standing position. "Looking at Anderson's ass is preferable to your ugly face, if that's what you mean." Trout's expression contorted into disgust as he got a whiff of the man. "Ugh. Smells better, too. Have you been sleeping with the pigs again? Puck's liable to drag you behind the ship by a rope if he catches wind of you. Not to mention what Cook'll do if you step foot in her kitchen."

The redhead puffed himself up. "I don't take orders from no woman."

"It's not orders she'll be throwing around. It's the boiling water you'd better watch out for." Trout waved a hand in front of his face. "What do you want?" he asked, to hurry the conversation along.

"Laundry. Abe sent me to get Cap'n's."

"Abe sent you!" Trout laughed. "Did he happen to suggest washing up first?"

Red sniffed. "And keep Cap'n waiting? I wasn't fallin' for that."

More laughter followed that claim. "I can see you've really thought this through."

Red scowled, apparently not seeing the joke. "Just hand it over," he griped. Trout wiped his watering eyes, looking across the room.

Taking that as his cue, Blaine fetched the bulky sack and moved reluctantly closer, curious who  _the pigs_  were and why they smelled like manure. The pristine white cotton bag containing Captain Black's expensive and beautiful clothing was held tightly in his grip, but instead of holding it out and hurrying the redhead on his way, Blaine was looking dubiously at the filthy hand that reached for it.

"Well?" Red demanded. "Give it here. I ain't got all day to laze around on my ass like  _some_."

Trout just grinned.

"I don't–" Blaine began, but his gut reaction had him yanking the clothes out of reach when grubby fingers shot forward.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" snarled the pungent sailor. "You'd best remember your place,  _prisoner_."

Trout's humor disappeared in an instant. He straightened and moved to block any further advance of the man toward Blaine. "His place is here, where Captain Black has entrusted his belongings into Anderson's care, laundry and all."

"Fine," the redhead retorted. "We'll see what happens when Cap'n finds out his fancy togs ain't been washed." His lip curled nastily and he sneered at Blaine over the guard's shoulder. "Been too long since I seen a good flogging."

"Is there a problem?"

The foul-smelling sailor turned hastily, sidestepping out of the doorway and, unfortunately, deeper into the room. Blaine wondered how much the captain had overheard. He kept his death grip on the bag, his stomach clenching with nervousness. Would Captain Black be annoyed that Blaine had defied one of his crew? Would he be banished back to the brig?

"No problem, Cap'n," the redhead quickly piped up, standing straight and tugging at the hem of his shirt, as if that would create any kind of improvement. "It's laundry today, you know, sir, and Mr. Abraham asked me if I wouldn't mind collecting yours if I had time. So, of course I came right down here, because we don't want your stuff going last into the water, do we? Everybody knows how the wash water gets after a while, eh, Cap'n?" he babbled hastily, trying to clear up anything his boss might have heard and misinterpreted as disrespectful. "This prisoner here was bein' difficult an' I was explaining how things work 'round here is all. Nothing to bother your head about, Cap'n. I got it all under control, sir. Me and Andrews here was about to come to an understandin' about who's in charge and who's not."

"Anderson," Captain Black replied to the sailor's ill-advised rambling.

"Huh?" The redhead squinted in confusion.

"Yes, Captain?" Blaine answered at the same time, and the captain glanced briefly at him before returning his stony gaze to the unwashed sailor standing inside his private quarters. Blaine, through careful and meticulous observation, a.k.a. blatant staring, was quickly learning to identify telltale signals of his favorite pirate's mood. He could already recognize definite signs of anger in the stiff way he held himself. What Blaine couldn't be sure of was where that anger was directed. He clutched the top of the bag to his chest and held his head high, prepared to defend his actions, if necessary.

"I said," the captain's voice was dangerously quiet, "that my assistant's name is Mr. Anderson."

Red stared at him, completely at a loss. "Uh," he said.

Captain Black turned his gaze to Trout, crooking a brow ever-so-slightly.

"Well, sir," Trout promptly responded to the silent command. "What happened was that Stick showed up looking for your laundry, like he said, and Anderson was reluctant to hand it over under the circumstances." His nose twitched.

The captain didn't look at Blaine to observe either his palpable worry or the bag being held like a lifeline. He addressed the redhead – Stick? – again. "I believe you have your answer then, don't you, Mr. Smith?"

With a growing flush visible in spots under his grime, the sailor opened his mouth to argue. Clearly, he didn't know how to take a hint. "But, sir! He's got no right–" He stopped, something in the captain's expression bringing his tirade to an abrupt end.

"On the contrary, Mr. Anderson has followed my orders precisely."

If there had been any remaining doubt that the conversation was over, the captain's tone made it clear enough. "Yes, sir," the sailor muttered peevishly. He squeezed carefully past the captain and hurried back the way he'd come, leaving only his stench behind.

"Sorry about that, Captain." Trout grimaced.

It was a while before there was any response as the captain took slow, calming breaths. Then he turned toward them. "This might be a good time to open a window." Finally, he was looking at Blaine, who  _could_  take a hint and walked over to unlatch the porthole, letting in a much-needed waft of fresh air.

"What really happened?" Captain asked Trout, who chuckled at the insightful question.

"Abe's got a wicked sense of humor," he explained.

"Abe sent him here in that condition?"

"Not exactly," said Trout with a rueful smile. "Abe told him to clean up, probably knowing damn well he wouldn't and that there was a fair chance he'd run into you down here."

"You think he was set up then," said the captain.

Trout shrugged. "I think Abe gave him enough rope to hang himself and Stick wrapped the noose good and tight around his own neck."

With a nod of understanding, the captain glanced quickly at Blaine, who stood across the room, avidly watching the exchange and absorbing every word. "Did I hear him making threats as I arrived?" Blaine's breath caught in his throat when he heard that note of danger seep into Captain's voice again.

"I don't know if I'd call it a threat. Stick likes to run off at the mouth. Makes him feel big to push other people around."

The captain's rigid posture began to relax at last. Blaine felt his own tension ease at the sight. "You may be right about that," Captain said. "I'll speak to Abe and the others about reevaluating his place with this crew." He tapped a slim finger to his chin, unintentionally capturing Blaine's interest with the small movement. "Meanwhile, as Mr. Smith demonstrably has no objection to odor, it seems appropriate to reassign him." Blue eyes gleamed. "You may tell Abe to switch him from any other collateral duties to chamber pots for the remainder of the trip."

"Aye, sir." Trout's easy grin really brought home to Blaine the fact that certain members of Black's crew were completely comfortable around him. The way friends would be. It was a sharp contrast to the captain's interactions with everyone else.

"After that you should get some rest."

Trout looked at Blaine and back. "Are you sure, Captain?"

Captain waved off his concern. "We'll be fine."

Blaine, who fell outside the category of  _friend_  and firmly within the realm of  _everyone else_ , stood immobile by the open porthole, clutching the bag that had caused more trouble than he'd ever imagined could come from a pile of dirty clothes. Trout was gone and they were alone, just Blaine and a man who might or might not be as angry with him as he'd been with the acrid redhead. What kind of stupid name was Stick anyway? Who wanted to be called after a dead branch? And what did he mean when he said it had been too long since their last flogging? How long was too long? And why wasn't there enough air in this cabin?

Then Captain was looking at him. No spark of feeling was left showing in those stunning, blue orbs.

"Follow me." The captain left without another word. Blaine, figuring he'd pushed his luck far enough for one day, didn't ask questions.

Contentious laundry bag still in hand, Blaine followed him down the passageway, emerging on deck into bright sunlight. He squinted and ducked his head, keeping an eye on Captain's back, which Blaine could admit was no hardship, and sticking close enough to hear it if he said anything else. He didn't.

They turned left, heading for the rail rather than the forward deckhouse Blaine was more familiar with, since it led to the galley on one of the lower levels. He might have slowed a teensy bit when they neared the side of the ship and the open ocean, but he did keep following, as instructed, breathing easier when they veered left again around the main deckhouse they had exited and toward the rear of the ship.

Above and in front of them, enormous, square-rigged sails filled Blaine's view. They were swollen with wind, creating a loud, continuous creaking of rope, canvas and wood. It was surprising, then, that the ship didn't seem to be making great speed.

"Captain?" he started, before he remembered that he was trying to stay on the pirate's good side. Asking questions might not be the best way to go about it, particularly if his question was why the ship was so slow. Something like that could, conceivably, be seen as mildly offensive to the given ship's captain. But it was too late. The pirate had stopped and was turning around. Blaine's gaze dropped from the sails to look into the handsome face with trepidation. He'd opened his mouth to say never mind, when his peripheral vision spotted a shape out in the water. "Captain!" he cried, and dropped like a stone.

From his new vantage point, sprawled on the deck of the ship, Blaine stared pleadingly up at the man above him, even going so far as to wrap a hand around a boot-clad ankle. "Captain! Captain!" Blaine tried to warn him. "Get down!"

Faster than Blaine could blink, the captain's gun was in his hand and he had pivoted to look behind him, ready to shoot at the first sign of trouble.

"Captain! Please!" Blaine was frantic, two hands now slipping over leather-encased calves, fear knotting in his chest. He desperately urged his crush to join him on the ground, unwilling to go so far as to trip him, but it was a near thing. Captain ignored his tugs and pleas like so much sea spray on the wind, scanning the ship and horizon for danger until he slowly spun to look down at Blaine, pistol held in a white-knuckled grip and one steady finger on the trigger. The weapon was aimed at the deck near his feet and consequently not far from Blaine's head, and the fury, for a change, was burning in his eyes with no mask to cover it. Blaine might have been proud of himself for provoking such an honest, visible reaction if he hadn't been so busy panicking.

"What the hell are you playing at?" the captain bit out, glaring down from his superior height.

Confused and frightened, Blaine didn't know what to say. Everything felt surreal. Belatedly, he became aware of the sailors who'd been working nearby, each one now staring at him. Only the sails continued to move while everything and everyone else was motionless and waiting. Instead of mayhem and explosions and men rushing about, there was a frozen tableau hinging on Blaine's next move. It made no sense. Slowly, he got to his feet. If he was the only one who could see the other ship that loomed behind them, then his sanity had slipped further than he'd realized.

The pirate's jaw clenched and his gun was shoved roughly back into its holster, though Blaine knew, if Captain wished, it could be drawn again and fired point blank at his chest before he could say 'don't shoot.'

"Captain, I–" Blaine's hands spread before him in wordless appeal, his eyes darting between ship and man. How should he explain what was glaringly apparent? "Sir, the ship." He pointed out to sea. "Shouldn't you be taking cover or manning the guns or something?" he hesitantly suggested.

* * *

All of the anger that had flooded Kurt's body the instant he realized that his cabin boy was trying to make a fool of him, evaporated just as quickly. Now, he was trying to wrap his brain around what had just happened. If he understood correctly, and assuming Anderson wasn't lying to save his own neck, this man – Kurt's unwilling captive – had believed they were under attack and his first thought had been to protect Kurt. It boggled the mind.

He took several deep breaths to get his emotions under control. There were too many opposing feelings. He would set aside his amazement and disbelief until a time when he was alone to study them. For now, he would concentrate clearing up this bizarre misunderstanding.

With one stern look around them, Kurt stopped his crew from gawking and sent them hopping back to work, allowing him to speak to Anderson without the gossips hanging on their every word. His heart had stopped racing and his expression cleared, unlike the man before him, who appeared to be on the verge of a breakdown.

"If you will look closely, Anderson, I believe you'll see not only that the deck of that ship is all but deserted, but that the ship itself is familiar to you."

A befuddled gaze locked on a point over Kurt's shoulder and he could see the moment that realization set in. "The Iron Fist? What's it doing here? I thought we left that behind more than a week ago." Wide hazel eyes jumped back to Kurt. "Is your crew sailing her? Have we been going in circles all this time?"

Kurt sighed, releasing the last of his tension. Or, as much as he ever released. "No and no," he answered shortly.

"But then how is it here? Why is it here?" The dark head tilted in child-like curiosity, anxiety vanishing from his features.

Normally, Kurt would ignore such impertinent questions and remind his prisoner that the Iron Fist was not his concern, nor were any of Kurt's actions. But those words never made it past his lips. Anderson was harmless. He hadn't asked anything that the other prisoners couldn't tell him. In fact, Kurt was surprised he hadn't heard all about it in the brig the night before. Word must have spread like wildfire after the handful of prisoners had seen the ship on their first day out of their cells.

In the end, Kurt saw no harm in answering. "The Iron Fist is here because we're towing her."

"Towing her!" Anderson repeated at an unnecessary volume. The laughter of two nearby sailors confirmed that the story would be all over the ship by dinnertime. "You can do that?"

Kurt actually closed his eyes, drawing another deep breath for patience. "You see it there, don't you?" Sarcasm got the better of him. Kurt's cabin boy brought out all sorts of traits he usually kept buried.

"Oh." Anderson finally recalled to whom he was speaking. "Yes, of course. I'm sorry, Captain." He bent over to retrieve the bag he'd dropped in his haste to dodge flying bullets, or whatever it was he thought he was dodging. "I guess I thought the ship would have been looted and burned, or abandoned or something. That's what I've always heard about pir– ah, battles at sea." Anderson flushed slightly, looking down.

It was irritatingly difficult to stay angry with this man. If Kurt wasn't so practiced at keeping a straight face, he might have smiled when Anderson so blatantly avoided calling them pirates, almost as if he didn't want to hurt Kurt's feelings. The man was a puzzle. One that Kurt would have loved to solve, if he could. Which was out of the question. And since wishing never did anyone any good, it was best to keep his distance. Anderson would be gone in a couple of months at most, and the only thought he would give to Kurt in the future, if he ever thought of him at all, would be to thank his lucky stars that he'd escaped with his life.

"Others might have looted and burned her," Kurt heard himself say, "but I have reasons for what I do."  _Except for telling you this_ , he thought.  _Explaining myself to you is unfathomable._  Only his most trusted friends and family were aware of his reasons for choosing the targets he did, or that he chose his targets at all. Very carefully, in fact.

Anderson just stared at him thoughtfully, making Kurt uncomfortably aware that he was being nice. He should do something about that before his reputation suffered irreparable harm. Perhaps he could visit the brig again and scare the piss out of that snooty first officer. If they  _were_  to have a good flogging on this journey, it couldn't happen to a nicer fellow.

Not that he'd really have someone beaten near to death without a damn good reason, but it made him feel more pirate-esque to tell himself he would. Although, he had been tempted earlier to let Stick personally enjoy the lashing he claimed to crave. Which reminded Kurt, he needed to talk to Arty and see about dropping that sailor from the crew. It would have to be done carefully. Kurt couldn't have the man blabbing things about the Blackbird that ought not to be blabbed.

Among the three of them, he and Arty and Puck should be able to convince the thick-skulled redhead not only that he wanted to leave, but that it would be in his own best interests to keep his mouth shut and forget he'd ever heard of the Blackbird.

Anderson shifted uncomfortably. "Captain," he paused, nibbling distractingly on his lower lip, evidently choosing his words before he continued. "I'm sorry for panicking just now, and for grabbing you." He was bravely looking Kurt right in the neck. "It was purely instinct."

_I know. That's what makes it so strange, that your instinct was to save me._

"And I'm sorry for," running low on bravery, it seemed, Anderson now found Kurt's shoes fascinating, "I'm sorry for anything else I might have done to upset you today."

Kurt sucked in a breath. They'd been doing so well at pretending that the little scene in the galley that morning had never taken place.  _Denial, denial, denial._  Slowly, Kurt spun on the ball of his foot and resumed walking toward the stern of the ship. "Come on," he ordered, and heard his cabin boy fall into step behind him. Kurt just wanted to get blind drunk and wipe this day from his memory.

It didn't take long to reach the small workroom that his men had assembled right on the main deck for doing the wash. They'd complained for months on end that it was too hot to work belowdecks, and too windy to work out in the open with clothes that would blow away. Their solution had been to build a little work shed that blocked the worst of the wind. It also caused drag, which slowed the ship and made Kurt's teeth itch. Granted, the thing could easily be knocked down and thrown overboard to increase their speed in an emergency, but Kurt still didn't know how he'd let them talk him into it. His men were shamefully spoiled. He blamed Cook.

Two doors on either side of the workroom were lashed open, letting through a constant, refreshing breeze to blow away the sweat of laboring over a tub of warm water. The tub was even set on a raised platform to ease the back-breaking chore. Kurt inwardly sighed. All the other pirate captains would laugh their asses off if they knew how pampered his men were. He would never be taken seriously again.

Tibby and Dom were already hard at work, sorting items into stacks that would have been much larger, were he and Lauren not the only two aboard who found it necessary to wear a fresh change of clothes every day. The men might have been pampered, but they were still men, unconcerned with dirt. Kurt was mostly immune to it now, but it had taken a long time to adjust to such a mentality. Not to mention the smell.

"Good morning, Captain!" Tibby called out when he was spotted. The two men dropped what they were doing to join him outside the workroom. "What can we do for you this fine day?" Tibby was another one like Trout, whose cheery personality was as bright and dependable as the sun.

"Good morning, Tibby. Dom." Kurt greeted them and inclined his head toward his silent tag-along. "This is Anderson. He's volunteered to help out with the wash today." Anderson shot him a quick look, then held out a hand to the men.

"Blaine Anderson," he introduced himself. Kurt filed the uncommon name away for later consideration.

"Wonderful!" exclaimed Tibby with his usual exuberance. Kurt privately envied his ability to make friends everywhere he went. Kurt was more the type to glower at strangers until they left him alone. "Good to meet you. We'll be glad of the help." Tibby's infectious smile soon spread to both Dom and Anderson, leaving Kurt caught in the crossfire.

Clearing his throat, he interrupted their little bonding session. "I'll leave you all to it, then. I'll come back to collect Anderson later." His men were well aware of their responsibilities when it came to keeping an eye on the prisoners. Kurt knew he had nothing to worry about. So it was a mystery why he was reluctant to leave. Squashing the unwelcome sensation, he pulled himself away and went in search of the ship's Purser.

For two hours, he and Arty pored over the accounts, discussing their plans for the Iron Fist and its cargo, as well as the large number of her crew who were willing to work until their release. Not only was it important for him to be kept apprised of the ship's finances, but he stayed away from Anderson for two whole hours. Kurt was proud of himself, too, because it proved that Anderson had no hold over him. The cabin boy was there to serve him strictly in a pirate/captive capacity... Wait, no. Strictly master and indentured servant. With no unnecessary touching involved, whatsoever. That man could go around being handsome and sexy all he wanted, and it would have no effect on Kurt. None at all. No– Kurt's mental reassurances came to a dead stop when he reached the work shed.

Anderson, his untouchable cabin boy, was bent over the wide, shallow washtub with the others, talking and joking and scrubbing away. Kurt might have expected that much, as he'd noticed that his prisoner didn't shy away from doing work. What he hadn't expected was that his cabin boy – the untouchable one – would have stripped down to his knee breeches. Or that his smooth, surprisingly tanned skin would be glistening all over with sweat, or that his hair would have been washed free of the week-old pomade previously slicking it to his head. And he certainly hadn't expected the slick hair to transform into a gorgeous mass of black curls, shining with cleanliness and swaying wetly around Anderson's face.

Tibby's head nodded in his direction, alerting the others to his presence. Like a reversal of that morning, Anderson was the one caught unawares, startled to find himself being watched. But unlike Kurt, he showed no embarrassment. Anderson's response was to smile and wave a soapy hand, splattering suds into Dom's face and kicking off a three-way battle of splashes that Kurt suspected wasn't the first, and an all-out barefoot chase around and around the tub that was punctuated by slippery crashes to the floor and shouted taunts of superiority. All of which ended with Anderson's total, flailing submersion into the tub.

The sound of his laughter was like music, as if his looks and personality weren't enough for Kurt to have to deal with. But Kurt stayed put anyway, watching and listening while three grown men frolicked like carefree children. It was kind of remarkable how comfortable his prisoner was; how easily he fit in with a bunch of supposedly cut-throat pirates, as though he didn't judge them at all.

What a ludicrous thought. Kurt snorted. Of course someone like Anderson would be judging and condemning them in his mind. He was simply not foolish enough to let his disdain show, being surrounded by the enemy like he was. Anderson was obviously sneaky and clever. Kurt would do well to remember that.

Nevertheless, he watched the drenched man clamber out of the water, roaring with laughter and slinging his head wildly to send droplets flying at his cohorts. Then he bent over and propped his hands on his knees for support while he recovered his breath and created a puddle at his feet with the water that dripped from his pants. That was when it occurred to Kurt that the knee breeches had been dry when he had arrived. Anderson's hair and body had been wet, but not his pants. Perhaps he had been dunked without them. Kurt's mouth watered.

It was several interminable seconds before Anderson straightened, placing both hands on the small of his back and stretching beautifully to rid himself of kinks. Well-developed arms and a taut abdomen came as another unwelcome kick to Kurt's system. He wouldn't lie to himself and say he hadn't pictured what the man might look like shirtless, but the truth of Anderson's body put Kurt's imagination to shame. He would not have expected to see such a tightly muscled frame. How had a man who'd probably never had to work a day in his life come to look like that? Must he be so absolutely and frustratingly perfect? Why couldn't Kurt ever catch a break?

Anderson trotted over to him, blissfully ignorant of the chaos he was creating in Kurt's mind and body. He smiled at Kurt like an old friend, which was frankly uncalled for. "Captain." He stopped a couple of feet away, all skin and curls and relaxation. "Your clothes should be dry soon," he said. Kurt pointedly kept his gaze at eye level, remembering to breathe. "I washed them in cold water so nothing would shrink, and hung them up right away, because I wasn't sure how soon you'd be back."

Kurt nodded his acknowledgement. "You're wet," his runaway mouth informed the cabin boy.

Another broad smile added to the brightness of the sunny day. "Yes, sir. Sorry. Dom and Tibby were great, though. After I finished with your things, I asked how angry they'd be if I took a dive in that soapy water. I haven't seen a bath or a bar of soap since I got here and, well, I could hardly stand to smell myself anymore." Anderson happily explained. Kurt's face was itching to frown, but he kept still. It sounded as if his prisoners had been denied something as basic as the opportunity to wash themselves for more than a week. Kurt would have been screaming the walls down and tearing his hair out in their place. In fact, the urge to yell wasn't far off.

"I see," was all he said. "I've got one more thing I need to do this morning. You can finish up here, and I'll be back in about half an hour."

"Yes, sir." Anderson stared at him curiously and shook his head when he didn't find whatever it was he was looking for. Kurt congratulated himself on keeping his feelings, good and bad, hidden from view.

* * *

Dinner was a noisy affair back in the brig. Another group of them had been outside and were full of talk about the ship, the pirates, the weather, and even the dolphins that had followed them for a while. It was unending.

Add to that everyone's surprise when buckets and buckets of warm water, soap and washrags had been toted down by a half-dozen pirates and a red-faced Mr. Finley as soon as the prisoners returned that afternoon, and there was no shutting them up. Most of the men were less interested in cleanliness than in the finely crafted ship and a good day's sailing, but they had no objection to stripping down and washing, if there was nothing better to do. Mr. Finley also let it slip that the evening meal would not be served until Cook's sensitive nose was no longer offended by the rank odor, which got the men moving like nothing else could have.

Apparently, the women had disappeared for more than an hour behind their curtains, giggling and sighing with bliss over the next best thing to a bath, while simultaneously avoiding the scandalous and never-to-be-spoken-of room full of unclothed men.

Or so Blaine was told.

He'd been escorted back well after the others, and could not believe they'd finally gotten to wash, and he had missed it. It was just a lucky break for him that he'd had his own chance to bathe that day, or he would have been genuinely upset. As it turned out, he'd been the only one able to dunk his whole head and scrub it to his heart's content, as well as strip down and wash the rest of himself with a rag. And then, of course, he'd gotten wet all over when Tibby and Dom ganged up to throw him into the tub. He chuckled at the memory.

Blaine was feeling great, if exhausted from another early morning and a long day of work. He listened drowsily to his cellmates and neighbors talking over one another, without joining in on their rapid-fire conversations. He also wasn't hungry after helping Captain finish his lunch. He did eat, though, knowing there would be questions if he didn't, then stretched out on the floor at the back of the cell like a contented cat.

"Blaine! What are you doing? It's early yet!" Thad chided. He'd been one of the fortunate ones that day and was still buzzing with energy after hours of fresh air and exercise.

"I'm tired," Blaine responded, keeping his eyes closed in the hope it would discourage further questions. It didn't.

"Bah, don't be such an old lady. You crashed last night without a word. Now get up and tell us what they've got you doing. I think you're the only one that went up two days running." A small chorus of agreement went up from his cellmates, and Blaine's dreams of an early night drifted tauntingly out of reach.

He groaned in resignation. They'd have to know sometime. "I'm the captain's cabin boy." Blaine's self-deprecating chuckle filled the sudden hush.

"What did he say?" someone whispered in horrified shock. Blaine presumed it was Trent.

Thad cleared his throat when the silence stretched too long. "You're, uh... You're what?"

His forehead knitted at the overreaction of his cellmates, plus some in the next cell over, Blaine saw when he could be bothered to open his eyes. He conveniently forgot his own heart-stopping trauma when presented with the same news a mere one day ago. "I don't know anything about sailing," he explained, "and Cook thought that being a cabin boy might be more my speed. She was right, you know? Fetching and carrying, I can do. Tidying up and polishing boots. That sort of thing."  _Preparing a perfect cup of coffee that the captain enjoys so much it makes_   _his eyelids flutter. I can do that._

"But," Thad began slowly and carefully.

"It's Captain Black!" blurted Trent, whose horror was growing by leaps and bounds.

The silence around them expanded to include more of the room. Men peered curiously their way after checking the door to see if the pirate captain had been spotted. "I know," said Blaine. "It's not like it was my idea, but if it gets me out of here for a few hours, it's worth it." No need to mention the fun he'd had doing laundry of all things.

"What's he like?"

Blaine's head rolled to the side. Trent was staring at him, looking like he'd seen a ghost. His apprehensive question hung in the air, everyone awaiting his answer, and Blaine sighed. What would Captain want him to reveal? Or not reveal?

Looking up at the ceiling, he decided to be selectively honest. "Well, you've all seen him. He's a hard man to read."  _I want to understand him, but he's good at hiding his thoughts and feelings._  "He's very quiet, in a 'don't talk to me if you'd like to keep breathing' sort of way. It's intimidating." That had been Blaine's first impression, so not a lie. "And, well, to be honest, he's really intense, like a volcano that could erupt at any time and kill everything in its path."  _And destroy itself in the process, probably, because I'm fairly sure that underneath his tough exterior is a warm and gentle soul._  "He seems focused and determined, and not inclined to let anything or anyone," Blaine gestured at himself and his cellmates, "get in his way."  _There's a reason for what he's doing. I don't think he meant to tell_   _me that._  "I'll tell you one thing: I do not want to be the one to set off his temper, because it's boiling just under the surface."  _Setting it off by accident could have gotten me shot, and_   _I know a certain smelly redhead who was lucky to walk away with his skin this morning._

Blaine looked around at the others. "I keep my head down, answer when spoken to, and do as I'm told."  _He's formal and taciturn with me, but I can't help wanting_   _to be near him._

Unlike Trent and, to some degree, Thad, Johnny wasn't staring at him in blatant, worried pity. "You're doing all right then? Because if you hate it, we could talk to Cook. If it was her idea, she might be able to help get you out of it. Maybe even let you help in the kitchen or something. I offered, but she said she needed helpers who'd leave something for the rest of the crew." He grinned sheepishly.

Blaine smiled warmly at his new friend. It was always nice to have people looking out for your best interests. "Thanks, Johnny, but I really am all right. I've survived two days already, and if I work hard, he probably won't kill me."  _He smells heavenly and I'd like to know if he tastes just as good._

Over Johnny's shoulder, Blaine noticed Smythe standing as close as the iron bars would allow, which fortunately was still eight feet away, and looking right at him. It was disconcerting to say the least. There was a calculating glint in his eyes that Blaine didn't like one bit.

He'd been wary of the Iron Fist's first officer ever since their first night at sea on the other ship. The passengers had been invited to join the senior officers for dinner, and Smythe had been staring at him then, too. It was creepy. As was the oily smile Smythe wore when he'd judged the staring to have gone on long enough and actually approached Blaine. Oddly enough, the cocky first mate had seemed to be under the impression that Blaine would enjoy being ogled like a succulent hunk of beef. But if it was meant to be charming or appealing in some way, it missed the mark with Blaine. To him, it was more a case of feeling like a mouse being thoroughly sniffed by a drooling cat.

The look he was on the receiving end of now, however, was less hungry and more plotting. Either way, Blaine was suddenly grateful to be literally locked out of reach.


	7. Facts, Misunderstandings and Lies

Their deception was working. Cook was so pleased with the captain's increased appetite, that Blaine felt guilty. He had to comfort himself with the knowledge that Captain was happy, Cook was happy, and everyone who benefited from their good moods was happy. His being stuffed like the proverbial fatted calf was a small price to pay. That's what he told himself.

"What's wrong?" Captain was looking up from the sheaf of papers he'd been reading through and jotting down notes from.

"Nothing, sir. Why would you think anything's wrong?" Blaine's quizzical frown was genuine.

"You groaned as though you're in pain."

Blaine grimaced. "Sorry."

Captain sat back in his chair, wiping the tip of his quill on an ink-stained cloth. "What is it?"

Hearing the no-nonsense tone, Blaine didn't bother trying to deflect. Much. "It's nothing, really. I'm just full." He waved it off as unimportant. "I'm used to smaller portions and more exercise, that's all." Blaine patted his stomach. "There are worse problems than having too much to eat." He broke out his well practiced, so-charming-you-forget-your-own-name nevermind-this-line-of-questioning smile. Patent pending.

"What sort of exercise do you usually get at home?"

Blaine frowned again. His subject-changer expression had always been so reliable in the past. Of course, in the past it had been directed mainly at those tedious women who congregated around him at dinner parties, dropping hints that were about as subtle as their cleavage. Obviously, the captain would not succumb so easily to standard diversionary tactics, and when Blaine thought about it, he supposed there was no harm in answering. "The usual, I guess." Blaine shrugged. "Riding, walking, boxing, dancing. Things like that."

"The usual."

Blaine absorbed the dry response, uncertain what Captain was hinting at. "I – um. Yes?"

"You're a hard worker for someone who spends his days riding and dancing."

A warm, slow flush tinted Blaine's face, due partly to embarrassment at how privileged he had sounded, and partly to his pleasure at the compliment. "That sounded very elitist, didn't it?"

"It's not your fault," Captain didn't disagree. "We are all products of our upbringing."

A playful grin tried to pull at Blaine's lips. "So, you come from a long line of dastardly pirates?" He held his breath, uncertain whether he had overstepped, or might somehow have become one of the scant number of people who could get away with teasing the captain.

The soft, feathered quill was twirled in slow circles while Captain studied him and Blaine tried valiantly to keep a straight face. "Do you come from a long line of dancers?" the pirate smoothly returned.

"As a matter of fact, no." Relieved, and able to breathe again, Blaine let his smile shine through. "My father refuses to dance. Says it's undignified for a man his age, but I've long suspected that he is a graceless clod on the dance floor, who stepped on so many feet in his youth that no lady is willing to risk her toes with him anymore, least of all my mother."

"Whereas you..."

"Whereas I am  _so_  light on my feet that I am never allowed to rest," Blaine declared with exaggerated pomp.

"Is that so?" Captain's tilted head and skeptical survey of Blaine's slouched, over-fed body, was a challenge that could not go unanswered.

"Absolutely. Women pursue me relentlessly for my skills on the dance floor. It's exhausting."

"Hmm." The delicate feather brushed gently across some of Blaine's favorite features. "If you were to marry, they might be less aggressive," Captain suggested.

"I could do that." Blaine let his tone convey what he thought of the idea, then leaned forward over the table. "Or I could buy passage on a ship and sail off into the sunset, never to be seen again." The captain was unable to completely hide his surprise.

"Is the thought of marriage so distasteful?"

Sitting back, Blaine suppressed his disappointment that this highly attractive man thought he should be looking for a wife. "It is to me," he replied honestly and, deciding to take advantage of this opportunity to draw one or two facts out into the open, he turned the tables. "Do you hope to marry someday?" Blaine was expecting to hear a scoff, and possibly some kind of acknowledgment from the pirate that women held no interest for him, so the two of them could begin to come to an understanding.

But the captain's reaction wasn't what he'd hoped for. Rather than immediate and fervent denial, there was thoughtful silence, until Blaine began to think he wouldn't get a response of any kind.

"I'm not in a position to be able to marry."

There was a striking level of emotion detectable in the captain's low voice when he did answer and, for once, Blaine wished there wasn't. Because the emotion was sadness. It was the sound of someone who had resigned himself to a life of loneliness. Captain didn't think he would ever be able to marry. He wanted to marry. He wanted a  _wife_. Blaine processed the words and formed rock-solid conclusions that raced pell-mell through his unhappy mind, trampling his daydreams and leaving a dismal, desolate voyage spreading itself out before him.

His head pounded with the sure knowledge that he had been wrong. He had completely misread this man, the same way that women were forever misreading him. The captain's soft voice and beautiful face and love of fine things were surface traits. Blaine had made an assumption based on appearances, a habit he detested in other people, adding guilt to the long list of regrets he'd developed within the last sixty seconds. He absently twisted a napkin in his lap, unable to meet the captain's eyes any longer. The stinging in his own was causing the napkin to blur.

Later, he would tell himself it was all for the best. It was absurd to think that anything could have happened between them. Unless Blaine wanted to become an outlaw, there was never any hope of having more than a short-lived fling, and he could get that anywhere, with much less trouble.

He would tell himself all of these things and more. Later. When it stopped hurting.

Blaine cleared his throat, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I'm awfully tired today, Captain. I'm sorry. I suppose I'm still adjusting to the early mornings." He tried to force his lips into something resembling a smile.

At first, there was no answer, and the silence was unbearable. Blaine began to stack and neaten the lunch dishes with uncharacteristic attention to detail. "All right." Captain's gentle reply had the effect of a heavy weight pressing down on Blaine's lungs. "I'll have someone escort you back, so you can rest."

Blaine could only nod jerkily. "Thank you, sir."

Captain didn't waste time, standing immediately and locking away his papers. Minutes later they were in the galley, where Cook was already starting on dinner preparations while her assistants cleared up from the midday meal. With them, was the footman who'd been traveling with the Iron Fist's female passengers. Blaine couldn't summon up the energy to say hello, choosing to wait by the door after depositing their tray. Cook beamed at them after a quick inspection of it.

"Afternoon, Captain. Anderson." She practically sparkled with self-congratulations. "How was your lunch?"

"A masterpiece of culinary art, as always," Captain replied facetiously in that moderated voice that Blaine no longer found hard to read. The captain got a smack on the arm and Cook received a kiss to the cheek, unseen by the footman, whose slightly trembling hands and refusal to look behind him gave away his nervousness in the pirate's presence.

Blaine refused to feel envy for the cook's special place in Captain's life. Their friendship was not his concern. Soon enough, he'd be gone from this ship and could put this entire episode behind him. He would find his perfect place, where he would live, obtain employment of some kind, and have the independence he had always wished for. In this 'perfect place,' he would meet someone handsome and exciting and wonderful, who would definitely not have bright blue eyes or any unnecessary dents in his face that would magically appear every time he smiled.

"Let's go," the brisk command interrupted his determined daydream of big, hairy, brown-eyed men, effortlessly replacing them with willowy, mysterious brunettes with long legs, explosive tempers, and deceptively soft, lonely hearts that cried out for someone like Blaine to cherish them.

With gritted teeth and shallow breaths, Blaine pushed away the image, along with the utterly unfounded feeling that he had lost something vital and precious, and followed quietly. He stared morosely at the leather boots striding easily ahead. They were brown today, not the black ones that Blaine had rashly grabbed onto the day he'd made a such fool of himself.

He should have known then, with the captain towering over him, weapon drawn and looking every bit the deadly pirate he was. If Blaine wasn't so blindly naive, he would have abandoned this foolish infatuation at that moment, lying there on the floor, when it was plain to see that the strongest feeling Captain had for him was contempt.

It was another lovely day at sea, Blaine noted with disinterest when they arrived on deck, and all he wanted was to sit in his cell and wait for an end to this trip. He sighed, still walking behind the captain, who was just beyond his reach in every sense. In spite of everything, Blaine could only admire the man. It was no one's fault but his own that he had romanticized the facts to make them match his own desires. Wanting someone would not make them want you back. The problem was that Blaine had only experienced that truth from the opposite side of the issue. Very few men had ever been more than a passing fancy to him, and those few had been willing enough to indulge his interest. Until now.

 _Enough_ , he scolded himself.  _Dwelling on it does no good at all. Focus on something else._  Like the fact that the captain was climbing the stairs to the top of the deckhouse. Blaine hadn't been up there before, not even aboard the Iron Fist, so it was a good distraction. He followed a few steps behind, since he hadn't been told not to, and saw a handful of men already there, including a familiar face.

Blaine hadn't seen or thought about Mr. Davidson since that first day. Blaine remembered him as the ill-tempered one of the trio that had come down to see the prisoners and settle the inevitable rumors of impending torture and death. He remembered that death at this pirate's hands had seemed not only a possibility, but a likelihood for Smythe for making threats against Captain Black. Now that he thought about it, that had been the first of several incidents where someone had shown a loyalty and protectiveness toward the captain that could only have been earned, not hired. Not one captive, with the exception of Smythe, had vowed revenge for the death of their own captain. Blaine felt confident that things would have been very different if their roles had been reversed and it was Captain Black who needed avenging.

While the captain went to speak with his men, Blaine hung back, drifting over to one side, where he'd be less in the way. Miles and miles of ocean were visible in every direction, and the Blackbird's huge, square sails were an amazing sight, straining and relaxing against the ropes as though alive, breathing in and out with each gust of wind. The same wind that was sending his untamed curls flying wildly about his head in a way he'd never willingly allowed before.

Suddenly, Blaine saw a figure moving amongst the sails. He held his breath when the man left the relative safety of the mast to go out along one of the ropes suspended beneath the horizontal beams. With a hand on the beam, he was walking on the rope!

"That's Mick," Captain said, coming up beside him.

"How does he do that?" whispered Blaine. "I'd break my neck on the first try."

"Every sailor can do it. We have to climb aloft to set and stow the sails, but I've never known anyone else with Mick's talent."

Mick was a tall, lanky man with amazing balance and agility. He appeared to be looking for something, as he was continuously peering down at the beam and the sail and the ropes holding it in place. After reaching the end, he spun about and made his way back toward the mast, moving quickly, as if on solid ground. But before reaching it, he hopped up to sit on the beam, legs dangling in the air, and then the silky black hair tied back from his face was swinging below him as he hung upside down by his knees, grinning cheekily. Blaine's own knees felt extremely wobbly.

"He's showing off now. Must have noticed us watching," the captain murmured with an air of proud affection. It was startling to hear such a normal, unreserved tone of voice directed at him. Blaine's head swiveled to the side, which was a mistake. Captain's face was lifted toward the sailor, his soft hair gleaming bronze in the sunlight, the wind ruffling through it like an eager lover. A fresh wave of despondency came over Blaine, bringing with it a bone-deep ache to reach out and let his fingers take the place of the breeze.

Fists clenching at his sides, Blaine went back to watching the dance-like moves of the sailor before the temptation became too much. "Is he – is he checking the ropes?" Blaine hoped some casual conversation might get his mind off of other things.

"Rigging. Yes, he's looking for any signs of fraying or weakness that could cause it to snap under the weight of the sails."

"Oh." Blaine frowned. "Is that likely?" He couldn't imagine how Mick would survive if a sail were to break free while he was up there. It would knock him about like a leaf on the wind.

"Only if no one is checking."

Blaine's traitorous head turned again against his will. He was immediately both infinitely glad and desperately sorry it had. Because the dimple was back. Captain wore a small, fond smile that curled one corner of his lips just enough to mark that innocent looking spot as the place.  _The_  place that gave the lie to all Captain's attempts to be seen as a monster. Blaine would never be fooled again, thanks to that simple, perfect, insignificant little dimple. And that should not make his chest hurt as much as it did.

He dragged his gaze away again, only to have it caught by Davidson's menacing glare. Dislike emanated from the man like a physical thing and, for whatever reason, was aimed directly at Blaine. He didn't know why that might be, when they had never spoken a word to each other, but it served as a helpful distraction.

"Cook is in a good mood today." The captain turned to him, unknowingly interrupting the staring match going on under his nose. "She was singing your praises." The dimple deepened. Blaine kept his eyes firmly on the captain's. "Said I'd be a fool to let you go."

Blaine's terror at the idea of staying on the Blackbird, of torturing himself ceaselessly with wanting what he couldn't have, must have been unmistakable on his face. Captain's mask fell swiftly into place, and he looked away. "Don't concern yourself. When we reach our destination, every prisoner will be gone from this ship, one way or another." The chill was back in his voice. Blaine wished he could convince himself it had never left.

"I'm sorry," Blaine whispered brokenly, and followed the captain's shuttered gaze. He was monitoring the progress of the three female prisoners and an equal number of escorts having a nice stroll around the deck under the watchful eyes of nearly everyone. "I can't stay here," Blaine said, knowing Captain wouldn't understand. Knowing too, that he hadn't been asked to stay. He just needed to say it, to hear the words aloud.

Captain didn't acknowledge his apology. They were silent while the ladies finished their walk and were offered seats atop some crates in the shade of the deckhouse. The crates, while not terribly comfortable, were a definite improvement over the floor of the brig, and the ladies weren't complaining. Mr. Finley and Mr. Abraham were there, along with a wavy-haired officer, whom Blaine didn't recognize. The men had evidently planned to teach the ladies how to repair fishing nets. What Miss Pillsbury thought of this idea, she was unable to communicate in actual words. However, the maid was simply shaking her lovely blonde head over the pile of netting she'd taken onto her lap for closer examination, before patiently explaining to Mr. Abraham that their net was full of holes and this was obviously why it didn't work.

Poor Mr. Finley made less progress than either of them, as his charge, the young brunette, was busy stringing together so many words that she had not paused to take a deep breath, let alone allow him to speak.

"It's extremely kind of you to allow us outside like this," Blaine ventured. He didn't think he could bear it if the captain went back to treating him like a total stranger, even if it would make leaving easier. He let himself to look at the sculpted profile. With such a limited number of opportunities to study him, Blaine could acknowledge to himself that he didn't want to waste any. "I've wanted to thank you. I never dreamed we would be treated so well." Soft pink began to color the tips of Captain's ears in the most endearing way imaginable, leaving Blaine yearning and bereft. He definitely needed to get off of this ship before he ended up leaving his heart behind.

"Mr. Davidson," the captain called out without taking his eyes from the fishing net spectacle. A few long, quick strides had the angry man joining them, still glaring hatefully at Blaine.

"Sir." His sharp response put Blaine in mind of an Army infantryman, ready to lay down his life at a word from his commanding officer. Except that Mr. Davidson would apparently prefer to vanquish the enemy. Namely, Blaine. The only question for Davidson might be how to choose from the different ways he might maim or kill Blaine once given the order. A pistol and cutlass hung from his belt, yet Blaine had a sneaking suspicion that beating his face to a bloody pulp would be the favored choice.

"Please escort Mr. Anderson to the brig," Captain requested without bothering to look at his officer or observe the triumphant sneer he shot Blaine's way.

"Be glad to, Captain," Davidson replied and Blaine believed it, although he remained at a loss as to how he had earned the man's loathing. Unless Davidson simply hated everyone. Such a miserable existence could even garner a little sympathy from Blaine.

Before Davidson could drag him, as he seemed to want literally to do, back to his cell, Captain turned to Blaine for a moment. "Perhaps you'll feel better tomorrow, Mr. Anderson. Cook will send for you in the morning, as usual."

As soon as they were dismissed, a grip on Blaine's upper arm jerked him toward the stairs. He went without a fuss, the parting words turning over and over in his head. Behind the flat tone, which Blaine knew was his own fault, the captain had almost sounded like he cared. Like he was coming to think of Blaine as a member of his crew. Which would be a terrible thing.  _Terrible_ , Blaine forcefully reiterated to himself. While he didn't want to be subjected to the frigid nothingness that he knew Captain Black capable of, there was a fine line between friendliness and caring. Blaine was conflicted enough with no encouragement at all. Heaven forbid the captain should warm to him. Blaine was liable to do something supremely stupid if that happened.

It was a quick trip down to the brig. Also silent and unpleasant, thanks to Davidson, who continued to pull Blaine by the arm for no discernable reason. A few days ago, or even earlier that morning, Blaine might have questioned the treatment. Now, with so much else on his mind, he couldn't find it in himself to care.

They made it all the way to the door of the brig before Davidson decided he could no longer keep quiet on whatever subject was festering under his skin. The meaty hand that was clamped onto Blaine's bicep was used to spin him, bringing them face to face.

"Lay one hand on the captain and you're dead." Davidson didn't beat about the bush.

Blaine took this latest threat in stride, looking calmly into the scowling face of yet another person who was somehow under the impression that they needed to warn him off. First, Cook got this wild hare up her ass that Blaine might deal the captain some sort of emotional damage. As if that were remotely possible. And now this man thought... Honestly, Blaine didn't know what this man thought, but he was fairly certain that Davidson didn't think the captain's life was at stake. His was more of a general warning to stay away. Strange, that. Weren't pirates meant to be cut-throat and self-serving? Why was this group so protective of each other? "Cook's threat was more creative," he informed Davidson.

The burly sailor's jaw clenched, his face turning a splotchy dark red. "There won't be anything left for Cook when I'm done with you!" he shot back.

"Yeah, yeah. I got it. Don't hurt the captain." Blaine rolled his eyes, feeling reckless and fed up. "He can take care of himself, you know. And he's more frightening than you. I never know what he's thinking or where I stand with him. He could be plotting  _my_  murder for all I know," Blaine snapped, throwing up his hands. "Maybe he likes to give his victims time to grow complacent. Maybe he gets off on playing with people's heads and seeing the surprise and betrayal on their faces after they've finally stopped fearing for their lives, only to have it ripped away!" Blaine shouted in the sailor's face. He was barely keeping it together now, with all the emotions that had built up inside of him for the last hour until he was ready to explode.

The fact that he didn't believe any of the nonsense he was spouting was irrelevant. Davidson presented a convenient target. Blaine could vent at him and at the general stupidity of anyone who believed Captain Black needed a protector. Blaine rarely lost his temper, but when it did happen, he went straight for the jugular, telling people the cold, hard facts that absolutely no one wanted to hear about themselves.

"I'm not going to hurt your precious captain and he sure as hell doesn't need you looking out for him. I doubt he'd thank you for going behind his back either, and treating him like some helpless weakling, who needs the protection of a  _real_  man," Blaine spewed, hardly aware of what he was saying anymore. "I'll never touch him. And he won't touch me!" he complained bitterly.

Davidson frowned down at him, trying to pinpoint exactly when he'd lost control of the situation.

Blaine had had enough. He yanked open the door and stomped toward his cell, shooting dirty looks all around. Thad and Nick were there, neither daring to approach him with such a thunderous expression on his face, the likes of which they'd never seen on Blaine before. Not even imprisonment had stolen away his good humor. But here Blaine was, scowling impatiently, waiting for a guard to open the cell door. Thad and Nick moved their quiet conversation off to one corner while he paced like a caged tiger. They stayed well out of his path. It was a shame, really, because Blaine was spoiling for a fight.

"Anderson." The call was quiet and distant; a buzzing gnat that went ignored. "Anderson." Smythe said a little louder, glancing at the guards across the room.

"What!" Blaine spat, his pacing continuing uninterrupted. He was in no mood to listen to Smythe, too busy planning what he'd do when he finally got off this thrice-damned ship. The first thing he was going to do was pick up a sailor who looked nothing like Captain Black, and give him the night of his life!

And when he was through with that one, he'd find another and another, and he wouldn't give Captain another thought, or pretend even once that it was the pirate in his bed, and he hoped that, wherever Captain was at that point, that he was happy being completely and totally alone every night. Blaine had been told more than once what a fine ass he had, and if Captain didn't want it, well that was his loss!

"Anderson!" Smythe's face was pinched tight with irritation.

"I said, what!" Blaine stopped pacing to look daggers at the man two cells over.

"I want to talk to you," Smythe wasted Blaine's time by announcing, nose in the air.

"I got that when you called my name three times." Blaine narrowed in on a possible new target. "What the hell do you want?"

"Would you keep your voice down?" hissed Smythe.

"Why should I?" Blaine asked, loud and clear.

"Because we could help each other out here." The first officer turned smug. Well, more smug. It was his standard look. Blaine curled his fist and eyed Smythe's sizable teeth. "It's obvious that you're sick of being treated no better than a common  _servant_."

The way Smythe sneered the last word made Blaine look over at the guards, contemplating a request for just one minute of time in the first officer's cell. Some of his favorite people were servants.

"I can help you earn back your self-respect," Smythe went on when Blaine remained silent.

Having never been short on self-respect, Blaine's frustrated anger began to cool, replaced by amazement that he was even having this conversation. He could be grateful to Smythe for that at least.

"How exactly do you propose to do that?" Blaine nurtured his growing curiosity in the hope that Smythe would say something truly asinine.

"I can make you First Officer of the Iron Fist," he declared, far surpassing Blaine's expectations. He didn't know how to begin to answer that.

"The Iron Fist," Blaine slowly repeated, in lieu of a real response.

Smirking, now that he believed he'd captured Blaine's interest, Smythe gave a supercilious nod.

"And how do you plan to do that?" Blaine's interest genuinely was piqued, just not for the reasons Smythe believed.

"Simple." Leaning closer to the bars, the first officer dropped his voice further. "We're going to take over this ship."

Blaine stared. "What?"

There was another smirk. It was getting on Blaine's nerves. "You and I will tell the others to be ready, and when the moment comes, all of the men that these fools have let out of their cells will strike."

Blaine didn't laugh. Didn't crack a smile. "I see." He didn't. "What do you mean, 'When the moment comes?'" he asked. "What moment?"

"The moment you kill Black."

Jaw sagging, Blaine looked uncomprehendingly at the man he could only presume had been sane at one time. This accusation was vastly different than the ones Blaine had received from Cook and Davidson. They, at least, thought he would only offend or take advantage of the captain somehow. "You think I'm going to kill the captain," he said. This was a point that needed to be clarified.

Smythe either couldn't hear the incredulity in Blaine's tone, or his mind was too far gone to fathom what it meant. "Of course," he replied easily.

"Mr. Smythe," Blaine began.

"Call me Sebastian. After all, we're going to be working very closely together." His head tilted and one brow quirked in what he probably thought was a seductive maneuver, a reference to the repeated propositions he'd made prior to the attack. To Blaine's annoyance, when they were aboard the Iron Fist, Smythe had seemed to think his refusals were part of some coy game they were playing. Blaine hadn't given the matter any thought since their capture. It wasn't important enough to bother.

Biting his lip, Blaine wondered how one went about politely informing a man that he was a blithering idiot. "Fine. Sebastian," he placated. "I don't know what I might have done to give you the impression that I'm a murderer, but let me set the record straight right now."

Smythe waved him off impatiently. "Don't be stupid," he said, which was especially rude after Blaine had resisted doing the same. "They're pirates," Smythe explained, as if speaking to a dimwitted underling. Blaine was getting quite tired of being talked down to. "Killing pirates isn't murder. It's justice."

Blaine scratched absently at his beard, falling back on the insanity diagnosis. It was possible that the man believed what he was saying. "I'm not sure you understand the definition of murder."

Smythe sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Listen, Anderson." The man was rapidly losing patience. Funnily enough, Blaine's was being restored just as quickly by the ridiculousness of this conversation. "You're just going to have to trust me on this. All you have to do is kill Black, and I'll take care of the rest. No one is going to be hanged for murder." He rolled his eyes.

Willing to accept that the first officer really did have faith in his own conclusions, as any good crazy person would, Blaine nodded to himself. Smythe smiled. "You are an imbecile," Blaine told him. Honesty is the best policy, after all. Smythe stopped smiling. "If you think I'm going to kill someone – anyone – in cold blood, you obviously don't know me at all, and if you believe for one second that I, or anyone else for that matter, could kill the captain of this ship and live to worry about being hanged, then you haven't learned a damn thing about these pirates. That is not only murder, it's suicide, and I am neither a murderer nor suicidal."

An ugly red flush was creeping up Smythe's neck, to the enjoyment of the other prisoners who were no longer pretending not to eavesdrop. Smythe's cronies were shooting Blaine hateful looks, and Thad's distinctive snickers could be heard from somewhere to Blaine's left.

"But let's leave me out of it for a minute," Blaine continued. He was feeling much better, thanks. "Even if, by some crazy coincidence, the captain was out of the way. He could trip and fall overboard, I don't know. And let's say, by some miracle, that you did convince the prisoners to revolt. I've seen no evidence that they would listen to you, but anything's possible. We could all come down with a simultaneous brain-fever, or be possessed by evil spirits," he speculated. "Those of us who were out of our cells when it happened would still be unarmed and outnumbered, and you would still be locked in that cage when the pirates came looking for revenge."

Smythe had that pinched look again.

"And one last thing." Blaine wrapped both hands around the iron bars and borrowed one of the captain's traits, letting his eyes go cold. "About that other offer you made when we were still on the Iron Fist?" Smythe stiffened, nervous glance darting around. "Not for all the pirate treasure in the sea," Blaine swore, watching the red face start to twitch. Finally, the sincerity of his rejection was getting through. Blaine gave him a satisfied smile and turned to talk with his friends.

* * *

Kurt couldn't sleep. "What else is new," he grumbled up at his canopy. The ship was quiet, the waves lapping against the hull were peaceful, but still he couldn't sleep. Something was different, though. His sleeplessness wasn't caused by nightmares, or a mind working overtime to plan his next attack, or even a rehash of everything he'd been able to learn about a potential target.

On this night, Kurt's thoughts were centered exclusively on Anderson.  _Blaine_ , as Kurt now thought of him privately. Such a lovely name, suitable for either murmuring softly, or crying out passionately, he imagined. Not that he would be finding out.

Their conversations from that day were replaying in his mind, stirring up feelings he'd rather not feel. One by one, Kurt's hopes for locating Blaine's flaws had withered away to nothingness. So unfair. All he'd wanted was for his outrageously handsome cabin boy to have the voice of a banshee or the personality of a slug. He'd even have settled for a lousy sense of humor or open disdain for himself and his crew.

Naturally, those hopes were in vain. After a lifetime of disappointments, Kurt expected no less than the opposite of whatever he wished. He hadn't wanted a cabin boy. He got one. He hadn't wanted it to be the single most attractive prisoner of the bunch. Too bad, it's him. Then, he could only hope the man would not be as wonderful inside as out. So, guess what? He's better.

As far as Kurt could tell, Blaine Anderson was disgustingly perfect in every way but one, albeit a vital one from the point of view of Kurt, who didn't see why women should get all the good men.

He and Blaine had been having a quiet lunch that had somehow morphed into light-hearted banter; a pleasant chat between two people getting to know each other. From there, steering the topic toward more personal matters had been easy. Kurt didn't think he'd been conspicuous about it. He just couldn't resist the chance to learn more about Blaine. Especially the one thing he most wanted to know.

Some men, maybe most men with his leanings took pains not to show it. Many would deny it even to themselves. Kurt might choose to live in denial on occasion. Rare instances. Hardly ever. But he refused to lie to himself when it came to something as fundamental as his sexuality. He would sooner spend his life alone than with a woman, and had intimated as much at lunch, because opening the door to subjects like that worked both ways. If Kurt wanted to know things about Blaine, he had to share things about himself.

So, the tone of their discussion had changed, and Kurt had learned the answer to his question. Of course, not the answer he wished for. Blaine's feelings about marriage were surprising, though. If Kurt were a betting man, he would have wagered that marriage was behind Blaine's decision to travel overseas to begin with. A man of his age and background would have few reasons for such a voyage. Either he needed a rich bride and had been forced to expand his search overseas, or a bride had been chosen for him back home and he was trying to delay the inevitable. Those were the reasons Kurt had deemed most likely, anyway. He didn't know why the subject of marriage had caused Blaine to become withdrawn and depressed, unless he'd been hurt in the past. Maybe he couldn't have the person he wanted, and would not settle for anyone else.

Or maybe he'd been rejected by someone he loved, or his parents had forbidden the match. If he had been unlucky enough to fall for a servant girl, for instance, his father might have threatened to cut him off. Kurt couldn't very well ask after seeing how upsetting it was to Blaine.

Whatever the cause, it was clear that any tiny spark of hope that might have lurked somewhere in a dark, hidden corner of Kurt's heart, behind a large wall of skepticism, was doomed to die a painful, lonely death. Which was no more than he had anticipated, so at least he was prepared. If there was a silver lining, it was that Kurt's dejected sighs wouldn't be heard by anyone else in his big, empty bed late at night.

A real surprise would have been finding out the attraction was mutual. Hell, the shock might have killed him.

Ah, well. Kurt still had his fantasies. In those, he was never disappointed. Because in Kurt's fantasies, any reluctance on Blaine's part was nothing more than a token protest before the ultimate surrender.

Watching the man work every morning was delicious torture. Kurt was never so glad in his life to be devoutly clean-shaven as when Blaine was mixing that bowl of shaving soap. The way his hips wiggled in sweet little circles with each quick swirl of the brush made Kurt want to drop to his knees behind him.

Groaning softly, Kurt sent his fingers sliding downward and settled into his latest waking dream.

Blaine might jump and look over his shoulder in surprise, but Kurt's hands on those teasing hips would hold him steady. Kurt wanted to press his face against the resilient muscle and let his lips wander along the enticing crevice and down to the join of thigh and buttock, and he wanted it without the barrier of fabric between them.

He would stand quickly, spinning his startled prey and pinning him to the wall, Blaine's hazel eyes big and beautiful and so close. Kurt could stare for hours, marveling at all the colors that blended together in those eyes, but there'd be no time just then, his target fixed somewhat lower.

He would grasp Blaine's forearms, lifting and holding them to the wall above his head. Blaine wouldn't struggle or demur, and his look of surprise would fade, his breathing becoming more labored. His wrists would cross and go limp, resting on the crown of his head, half buried in silken curls. Kurt would take a few moments to appreciate the sight before his palms would skim slowly down the strong, shapely arms toward a broad chest. Blaine's body was all hard muscle under smooth, honey colored skin sprinkled with tantalizing dark hair. He could fight Kurt off if he tried, but the idea would never occur to him. His limbs would remain where Kurt had placed them as if chained there, his panting breaths the only sound he'd make as Kurt's curious hands explored him.

Buttons would slip free at Kurt's touch. Clothes would fall away, because this was  _Kurt's_  dream, and if he wanted bare skin, he would have it.

Soon, he would languidly kiss and caress every inch of the lean, manly frame that Kurt now knew lay beneath Blaine's gentlemanly attire. But first, he needed to be buried to the hilt between the firm, round cheeks that wriggled so erotically for him each morning.

Not wasting another moment, he would close in on his captive, hands dropping and reaching back to cup and clench the taut mounds. With a jerk, Blaine would be lifted from the floor. He'd squeak in alarm, legs wrapping instinctively around Kurt's waist, hands flinging out to clutch at his shoulders. He would be well and truly caught, and all Kurt's to do with as he pleased. "Captain!" Blaine might gasp. But he would not say, 'Stop.' He never did, in Kurt's fantasies.

Kurt would pay no heed to the implied question in his prisoner's voice. He would simply lower his gaze. Blaine's body would tell him what his silence did not, the column of flesh reaching up toward his belly lengthening and hardening even as Kurt watched. "Your cock is gorgeous," Kurt would murmur, admiring the shiny, swollen, delicious looking tip before closing the small distance between them to plant his face into the crook of Blaine's neck and press him more firmly against the wall. "Roll your hips for me, Blaine," he would order, enjoying his captive's immediate response.

How he would relish the tightening and relaxing of Blaine's exquisite bottom in his palms as he obeyed, rutting gently until he whimpered in discomfort. "Captain. Your trousers," he would complain, knowing that Kurt would not punish him for it. "They're hurting."

Kurt could only agree that his clothes were in the way. He willed them off with a thought, never giving up an inch of the ground he'd gained against his less than reluctant opponent. An opponent who would sigh dreamily when his sensitive skin was fitted tightly against the velvet smoothness of his captain's rigid shaft, and not the abrasive cloth of his trousers. The rutting would begin again in earnest, evoking renewed sighs, interspersed with delighted "Mmm's" and "Ohh's."

Kurt would allow it, never one to deny his lovers their pleasure, as long as he wasn't denied his. His own hips would begin to move, increasing the glorious friction of their cocks sliding against one another, and his teeth would lock firmly onto Blaine's shoulder while his fingers gripped and flexed, edging ever closer to the tantalizing nether region that he longed for.

When his fingertips at last brushed the tender rim, Blaine would cry out softly, his movements becoming erratic, and Kurt would not be able to wait any longer. He would lean his weight more heavily into Blaine's torso, holding him steady while his own knees bent and his cock slid free between the spread cheeks.

Blaine's arms would be wrapped tight around his neck, his cries muffled against Kurt's skin as he was stretched and opened. Slowly, firmly, Kurt would penetrate him, sinking into the warm channel that would clench and loosen, strangling his cock and welcoming it by turns.

He wouldn't stop until he'd bottomed out and he was the one panting harshly. He could imagine the feeling of Blaine's pulse against his shaft. He would moan throatily at the sensation of heat and muscle enveloping him, and he would push, wanting to be ever deeper. But since he couldn't, being balls deep already, Kurt would do the next best thing: he'd pull back and slam forward. And then he would do it again. And again.

Blaine would be a dead-weight of open-mouthed need, putting himself and his release entirely, and literally into Kurt's hands. His tongue would loll against the skin of Kurt's neck, swiping around his grunts with each pounding thrust.

Kurt's back would shine with perspiration, his biceps bulging with the strain of holding Blaine high against the wall, his hips pistoning relentlessly, over and over against Blaine's stretched cheeks. Kurt's forehead would drop to rest on a damp, sweaty shoulder while he worked in Blaine, breath blowing across his collarbone like a galloping horse. Kurt's cabin boy was everything he had ever wanted and more. In Kurt's fantasies, the extraordinary man he'd wanted on sight was his, and he'd be damned if he would ever let him go.

His dream prisoner would soon become addicted to Kurt's lovemaking, unable to bear the thought of leaving. He would plead with Kurt to let him stay. He would give himself to Kurt eagerly, begging prettily for Kurt to keep him always.

Kurt's back arched off the bed, hand stroking faster, thumb swiping over the head of his cock, his mind filled with vivid images of Blaine against the wall, on the bed, on his knees, sucking, fucking, or begging to be fucked as hard as Kurt could pound into him, and loving every minute of it.

A moment later, Kurt gasped and came, alone in his bed, with only his thoughts to keep him company.

It wasn't enough, but it was all he had. And as he blinked, bleary eyed up at his canopy, he was grateful for what Blaine had given him already without his knowing it. Having a beautiful man to spend his thoughts and his orgasms on at night was a vast improvement over what he'd had before. Too relaxed to move, Kurt drifted into a deep, restful slumber.


	8. Seeing Signs

"I just don't understand it." Lauren was ranting and pacing agitatedly back and forth across Kurt's cabin while he watched from the comfort of his favorite chair. Once she had settled into a good rant, there was no stopping her, so he stayed back. "Everything was going so well!" Kurt supposed that depended on your definition of well. Lauren stopped to shoot him a glare so dark, he thought he might have accidentally voiced his thought aloud. "What did you do to him?" she demanded.

It was a fair question. She couldn't have failed to notice, any more than he could, how Blaine had changed lately, becoming quiet and withdrawn. What she didn't know was that this behavior might have stemmed from Kurt's conversation with him a few days previous. Something had upset him that day. It could have been something Kurt said, or an unhappy memory stirred up by their talk, or, as he secretly feared, Blaine might have sensed Kurt's attraction to him and been filled with disgust. He had certainly been horrified by Kurt's offhand remark about staying on the Blackbird. Whatever the reason, Kurt blamed himself. He shouldn't have let his interest in the man override good sense. As a result, he had reverted to being as cold and distant as he should have stayed all along. Except, instead of putting Blaine at ease, it seemed to have made things worse.

Kurt held his tongue, sharing none of this with Cook. Being an intelligent man, he knew better than to hand ammunition to the enemy. Lauren in a sour mood definitely qualified, especially when Kurt was sitting within striking distance. "I don't know what you mean," he replied with such resounding innocence that her hands curled into claws.

Thankfully, there was a knock at the door before she could go for his jugular. Kurt wasted no time opening up for his rescuer, or in this case rescuers, as it was Billy with a tub slung over his head and Alex with buckets of heated water.

Arms crossed and claws put away, Lauren tapped an impatient foot while the boys set down their burdens. Meager as his baths were aboard ship, with only a few inches of water in a tub barely large enough to hold him, Kurt nevertheless sighed with gratitude. On cue, his scalp began to itch and he thanked the boys, ready for everyone to vacate his room so he could scrub away the ever-present salt residue and apply a generous coating of his favorite orange blossom skin balm. He'd been around sailors all his life and had no interest in looking like a worn-out piece of leather by the time he reached thirty, thank you very much.

Lauren remained where she was, so she could continue to give Kurt the evil eye. That didn't bother him too much. He'd built up an immunity after years of exposure. What was disturbing was when her look turned calculating. He could practically hear the hatching of a new plan in her head, and hurriedly tried to nip it in the bud. "Goodnight, Cook. I'll see you tomorrow," he said in a rush, making shooing motions toward the door.

"You know," she drawled and he groaned, watching delicate tendrils of steam rise slowly from the water buckets to be lost forever. "The workload in the galley has doubled with all the extra mouths to feed," she claimed. "Not to mention the necessity of hauling heaps and heaps of food  _all_  the way down to the brig three times a day."

"You know why they can't all eat in the galley, but I'll ask Abe to arrange for some extra kitchen help," he offered plaintively, eyes flicking from the tub to her to the door and back. Whatever point she was striving toward, and he felt sure he wasn't going to like it, he wished she would get to it and be on her way.

"No," she declined with a thoughtful, pensive air. "No, the men are horribly overworked as it is. They're already covering for the sailors you sent to man the Iron Fist,  _and_  they have the added hardship of watching over your guests every minute of the day. Why, poor Trout has practically given up sleep altogether what with going straight from night watch to guard duty." Kurt winced guiltily.

"No," she continued with her flair for the dramatic that Kurt often enjoyed but could do without just then. "As much as the boys – and I –" she splayed a hand over her heart, "want nothing more than to see to your every comfort, Captain," his dread increased, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut back on their workload." She stopped to look him in the eye. "Until the visitors depart, I'm going to have to insist that Billy and Alex dedicate their time solely to galley work." Kurt frowned, not quite following. Lauren gave him a sorrowful look. "I'm very sorry, Captain, but I'm afraid the boys will not have time to prepare your baths anymore."

He gasped in horror. "What?!"

"There's no help for it. I can't permit them to work themselves to death." Her head shook from side to side in regret. Then her face lit up with a brilliant idea. He tensed. "I know," she declared. Kurt felt himself being set up and, as always with Lauren, helpless to prevent it. "Anderson!" Lauren smiled brightly at the solution to their problems.

Kurt stared at her long and hard. "You hate me, don't you."

* * *

Blaine poked at the food in front of him, idly drawing lines and shapes. Time seemed to drag by more slowly now, in the captain's cabin, than it did in the brig. There was something wrong with that. Captain barely spoke to him anymore; would hardly look him in the eye. Blaine certainly didn't feel like he was allowed to smile at the man, not that the urge to smile was terribly strong these days.

They were back where they'd started, except that Blaine's fear of him had vanished without a trace. The captain's features were once again schooled into that emotionless mask that at first had been terrifying, then intriguing, then frustrating, before it had finally begun to crack and dissolve. Now that it was back, it was more depressing than anything else, keeping Blaine at bay as effectively as the deepest abyss.

On that unhappy day not so long ago, when he'd learned that the captain could never want him, something had changed, not only with Blaine, but with Captain too, and it was entirely Blaine's fault. The pirate had been teasing him –  _teasing him_  – about staying aboard the Blackbird, and his reaction had been manifest panic. A response that had brought the old, impenetrable veil dropping immediately back over Captain's amazingly open expression. Captain had looked almost happy to be joking with him. And now...

Now, Blaine had guilt piled on top of the giant dung heap that had become his life. Just what he needed.

There'd been no more flashes of dimple since then. Blaine missed the dimple. He missed trying to ferret out those rare sparkles of humor that would appear and disappear in a blink, missed seeing glimpses of emotions and trying to understand the man underneath it all.

He rose from the table, sluggish with lethargy that his daily dose of coffee could not overcome. Captain hadn't touched his breakfast and Blaine didn't do much better, despite having declined his own portion earlier. Cook was going to have kittens when she saw it. If she saw it. Blaine eyed the porthole thoughtfully.  _Why not?_

The stupid window latch didn't want to cooperate, but he beat it into submission with a short struggle and a warning scowl. "Hmph," he gloated, reaching for the bread. Captain didn't look up from his work, quill hanging poised over his parchment.

Blaine stepped back, holding the bread loosely, tossing it lightly into the air to be caught again in his palm while he narrowed his focus in on the porthole and calculated how far out to sea the impromptu projectile might fly. Too bad there were no seagulls this far out to sea, but he thought the fish would enjoy a change of diet.

His arm pulled back, his breathing calm and eyes fixed on his target.  _All right. Get ready, fishies. Here it comes!_

"What are you doing?"

The bread went zinging slantwise and Blaine clutched at his chest. "Fhlrngh," he wheezed.

Captain arched a brow without comment.

Blaine looked at him and quickly away, choosing to track down his wayward missile and not think too much or too hopefully about the possibility of being on speaking terms again. "I was– bread– fish." A telltale splatter of crumbs could be seen on the wall and in the middle of the room, where it trailed across the floor and disappeared under the armoire.

"I'm sure the fish have plenty to eat," Captain replied to Blaine's incoherent mumble.

"Yes. Yes, sir. I thought Cook might... I mean I didn't want her to think you weren't eating." Embarrassed, Blaine continued to avoid looking directly at him.

"Mmhmm." Captain waited, but Blaine didn't volunteer any other excuses. "I've withstood her complaints before. It's nothing to what she'll do to you if she finds you throwing food overboard."

"Oh." Blaine deflated, following his slumped shoulders downward to kneel and scavenge under the armoire. "I hadn't thought of that." He bent farther, flattening his cheek against the floor with his bum high in the air, awkwardly stretching an arm into the small space to snag the fugitive breakfast roll. There was no answer, so Blaine supposed the captain either couldn't hear him with his voice directed under the furniture, or his talkative mood had gone out the window, unlike Blaine's aim.

Abused and broken bread once more in hand, he got back to his feet and went to plop it on the tray. Captain was hard at work again, face firmly pointed toward the parchment and cheeks warmly flushed.  _What?_

A quick, sharp clearing of throat some eternal seconds later brought to Blaine's attention that he was standing next to the table, staring. His own face heating, he grabbed the kettle, hastily making his way to the washstand where he couldn't possibly see the captain. Unless he looked in the mirror.  _Damn._  He'd just have to keep his eyes firmly down. No pink-cheeked pirates to be seen here. No, no, no, and no blushing prisoners either. He groaned inwardly, feeling like he'd regressed several years back to his very enlightening and uncomfortable puberty.

Well, he'd gotten over the anxiety that had come with being attracted to his own gender soon enough, and he would get over this too. Pointless crushes were not Blaine's thing. There was someone out there who would fill the empty space that made his chest ache. His perfect place with his perfect someone. That was the future he wanted. Even if he would never marry or have children, Blaine knew he'd be happy when he found the right man. They would be happy together. He just needed to have patience and it would happen. He glanced up in the midst of his daydreaming, and did a double-take.

The captain was still leaning over his work, but was looking up through his lashes, not into the mirror, but at Blaine's legs. That in itself was strange, but it was the  _heat_  in those eyes that shocked Blaine to the core. That and the way the gaze traveled downward before slowly making its way back up in an almost physical caress. There was a discordant clank from the shaving brush hitting the side of the small, porcelain bowl where Blaine was mixing Captain's soft-scented soap. And with the clank went the eyes. Captain was looking at his papers again. His head didn't move. It was as if Blaine had imagined the whole thing.

Maybe he had.

Or maybe he hadn't?

With utmost care, far more than was called for, Blaine resumed mixing the already well blended foam, all the while keeping watch. To his disappointment, Captain's eyes remained downcast, though at the thought of that hot gaze, Blaine suddenly, and self-consciously, became very aware of how the swirling of the brush was mirrored by his twisting hips, the rotating motion of his arm causing his whole body to sway. The brush slipped, flinging a frothy splotch onto the washstand. Blaine hastily set down the bowl and swiped distractedly at the mess. Then, in a daze, he shambled over to the armoire to hide his face, and his confusion.

_What just happened? Captain was staring at me! No, you're dreaming, Blaine. It's impossible. He told me so, himself. Didn't he? He did! I remember it clearly. He said he liked women. Or wanted to marry one. Or something..._

_It was clear enough at the time!_

Blaine, pulling out and replacing articles of clothing at random, drew a sharp breath.  _What if Captain was lying? What if he doesn't want anyone to know his secret and he was trying to throw me off the scent!_

_No. That doesn't make sense, because if he's attracted to me – and, Blaine thought breathlessly, that look screamed **want**  – then why would he push me away when I was practically throwing myself at him?_

His thoughts chased themselves in circles. He needed to pull himself together and think about this logically before Captain noticed something was wrong. A short glance showed the pirate to be locking up his work, away from prying eyes. Not that Blaine would pry, however curious he might be, but he couldn't vouch for the dozens of other men aboard. Or Cook, for that matter. When it came to the captain, she might nosier than all the rest put together.

Blaine's stomach eventually began to unknot itself once he had adamantly forbidden himself from jumping to conclusions. There was no way for him to be certain of what he'd seen. Unless it happened again.

A tiny smile pursed his lips. With a little judicious planning and his newfound awareness, it  _could_  happen again. He could make sure of it.

Feeling much more in control, now that he was energetically plotting his next move, Blaine turned back to his task and selected clothing for the day. It hadn't taken him long to learn what the captain favored at sea and what was presumably reserved for port. As much as Blaine would have liked to see him in some of his finer things, there were definite benefits to work clothes. Like the fact that Captain sometimes neglected to wear an undershirt, and Blaine was subsequently treated to flashes of creamy skin and shadows of nipples through lightweight linen.

He was smoothing that day's clothes out on Captain's bed when a distant shout carried through the open porthole. As one, he and the captain looked toward the window and then at each other. An instant later came the loud clanging of a bell and the sound of running footsteps from above.

Blaine had rarely seen anyone move as fast as the captain did then. He jumped up and rushed the few feet to his bed, whipping off his robe and nightshirt as he went without even giving Blaine time to turn politely away.

"Shoes!" he said, galvanizing Blaine into action with him, and was dressed in ten seconds flat, just after a frantic banging on the door had started up, accompanied by the yelling voice of Trout trying to get Captain's attention, in case he had somehow missed the fact that he was needed on deck.

Captain's boots were no sooner on his feet than he was throwing open the door and pushing past the worried looking guard, Blaine right on his heels, and within moments of the alarm sounding, they were outside.

Everyone was shouting and running from place to place in a sort of organized chaos. Voices were clamoring over each other until none of them could be understood. Captain ignored it all, crossing the deck in rapid strides and taking the stairs two at a time to the upper deck where senior officers were congregating near the ship's wheel. Men parted to make way and Captain didn't slow, but kept going until he'd reached the rail, holding out a hand for the spyglass that was slapped into his palm. One of the men leaned in close and pointed out to sea. The spyglass, and Blaine's gaze, followed. If he squinted, he could just make out a dot on the horizon.

Suddenly, Captain was shouting out orders faster than Blaine could follow. Sailors began rushing about with new purpose. Some of the sails were hoisted, which baffled Blaine no end until he heard the order to signal the Iron Fist to come in closer and make ready her guns. "Standby a lifeboat!" Captain yelled to someone down on the main deck. "Be ready to get those men back on my order!"

Rather than run, Captain was preparing to stand and fight.

Panic blossomed in Blaine's chest. He'd taken two steps forward before Trout stopped him with a grip on his arm. "Captain?" the blond called out.

The fierce look on his face when Captain turned was one that Blaine could not have imagined there after all the time they'd spent together. Somewhere along the way, Captain,  _Blaine's_  Captain, and the infamous Captain Black, thieving, murdering pirate, had diverged in his mind. They were as opposite as night and day. Deep down he knew that it was just his way of making excuses for the man's past, but he couldn't help it. The person he'd come to care for did not have the heart of a villain. All the horrible things the public thought they knew about him must be false. Blaine watched him intently, breathing a sigh of relief when he recognized that fierceness to be determination. There was no joy at the prospect of a fight, no glint of avarice at the possibility of a fresh target. He didn't send the Blackbird in pursuit of unexpected prey. He was defending against an attack.

"Find Abe and get the prisoners below," he was saying to Trout. "He's probably rounding them up now." And with that, the captain was turning away again, without so much as a glance at Blaine.

"Captain!" he protested, letting the hurt show in his face for being so easily dismissed.

For an instant, he saw  _his_  Captain again. He saw the deep worry etched in his face. The safety of his crew was obviously something he took very personally and seriously. Then it was gone and he was the pirate, an immovable object standing between his crew and an unknown threat. Blaine shook off the hand that tugged at him and hurried closer before anyone could stop him, though Mr. Finley stepped forward protectively and Davidson's pistol was drawn and raised.

"Captain," he said in a soft plea, "I want to stay with you. Please." Blaine balled his fists against his thighs to keep from reaching out.

There was the briefest hesitation and softening of eyes, giving Blaine hope, until Captain's jaw firmed with resolve and he quickly, gently brushed the fingertips of one hand over Blaine's elbow.

"Go with Trout. You and the others will be safe, I promise," he said and looked over Blaine's shoulder. "Stay with them, Trout. Make sure every last man gets out if you hear the order to abandon ship. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Trout answered firmly, resuming his grasp on Blaine's arm. "Let's go, Anderson."

"Tell Abe to bring me a head count as soon as you've finished. I want every person accounted for," Captain gave a last stern warning. His gaze gentled again almost imperceptibly when he looked at Blaine's stricken expression. "Please go, Blaine," he finished quietly.

"Captain!" someone shouted from below and the pirate turned away, all business again.

Blaine let himself be pulled away at last. "Be careful," he begged, though Captain could no longer hear him.

* * *

It was a day for chaos. It reigned below as well as above; not to mention within Blaine's turbulent emotions.

He was terrified. When the captain had promised that the prisoners would be safe, he'd made no such guarantee for himself. If only Blaine were there, he could protect him somehow. He knew it. Nothing would happen to the captain as long as Blaine was watching over him. 'Pure, fanciful nonsense,' said his mind. 'It doesn't have to make sense to be true,' said his heart.

"He's pacing again," observed Thad from the back of the cell, where he and the others leaned against the wall, out of the way of distraught cellmates with an excess of energy and a deficiency of humor.

"Never a good sign," Johnny opined.

"I wish he'd stop that. He's making me nervous," Trent piped in.

"Anderson." Trout walked over to their cell and put both hands on the bars. His worried frown turned to an overly exuberant grin. "Hey, Anderson. Rumor has it you can sing. That right?"

"That's right!" Thad laughingly confirmed it to be one of the 'skills' the man had listed in his desperate attempt to escape the confines of the brig. "As I recall, he claimed to be the best singer in all Christendom. Said his voice makes the angels weep!"

Blaine stopped pacing to chuckle and shake his head at his friend and cellmate. "You could be struck by lightning for telling a whopper like that, and dragging the angels into it too! You know I never said any such thing."

"But you ain't denying it either, are ya?" Thad wagged a finger at him. "Come on, then. Give us a song." A cheer of encouragement went up from some of the other prisoners, and Blaine had to laugh.

"I don't think anything from my repertoire is really suited to this occasion," Blaine demurred with a smile. "How about you give us a song, Thad? I seem to remember hearing some very interesting lyrics coming from you aboard the Iron Fist. I don't know a single sea shanty, you know. How about the rest of you teach me to sing like a sailor?"

Half an hour passed in this way, with the men being determinedly jovial and no one mentioning the approaching danger. "Trout," Blaine quietly called out, waving the blond over while the others were distracted. "What do you think is happening up there? Can you go find out?"

Trout gave him a small smile that was too strained to be reassuring. "Can't. Captain ordered me to stay here, and here I'll stay. I wouldn't worry, though. That ship was most likely some merchant or other who'll give us a wide berth. If they are dumb enough to get close, they'll take one look at us and start praying for a strong wind to get 'em the hell out of here."

The door opened then to admit Mick, who'd never been to the brig to Blaine's recollection. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs to speak with the guards in a low voice, summoning Trout over with a jerk of the head.

"What's going on?" Johnny came over to stand with Blaine, who was clutching the bars and staring fixedly at the pirates, fighting the urge to yell and curse and demand that they include him. Trout was frowning at something Mick had said, and the new knots that had formed in Blaine's stomach were twisting tighter and tighter.

After their whispered conversation was over, Trout and Mick moved farther into the room and stopped in the center. The prisoners quieted down, sea shanties and laughter dying away as they all waited to hear what the pirates had to say.

"Looks like we're going to be down here a little longer," Trout reluctantly announced. "It's nothing to worry about, but Captain hasn't given the all clear yet."

"Who  _are_  you. Where is the so-called 'Captain,'" spat Smythe, who'd been quietly fuming up until then. "You tell that coward he can get down here and explain for himself what's going on and stop sending his dogs to do his job for him," he demanded, looking down his long, aristocratic nose at the two sailors.

Blaine recognized the glint of amusement that suddenly lit Trout's eyes, as he was rarely without it. Mick, on the other hand, looked astonished by the outburst, eyebrows perched high. He and Trout moved closer to Smythe's cell.

"Who am I?" asked Trout, disregarding the rest of Smythe's little speech. "Name's Smith. John Smith." He gestured toward the guards across the room. "And over there's James Smith and Joe Smith." Trout grinned. "No relation."

Smythe put on his signature sneer. "And I suppose you're Jack Smith." His gaze raked over Mick with an expression that suggested he'd found something nasty on the bottom of his shoe.

"Malaprop," the Asian declared after a few more seconds of speechlessness. "Jedediah Euphestus Malaprop. Of the Louisiana Malaprops? You've probably heard of us." Sticking his thumbs into his waistband, Mick gazed smilingly off into space, his voice taking on a pronounced twang. "Why, my old grandpappy, Mr. Phineas Malachi Malaprop, and his beloved wife, Magdaline Imogen Anastasia Malaprop, they loved the family name so much they had  _fifteen_  sons to carry it on. Even my own daddy, Zachary Demetrius Malaprop, wouldn't rest 'til he'd sired five sons of his own. He hadn't figured on how stubborn his wife could be, 'course. My mammy, Mrs. Violetta Marietta Rosetta Malaprop, née Jonesetta, she had her heart set on girls, you see, and she went and gave him seven daughters to go along with them boys Daddy was trying to get on her. Mammy never cared much for being told what to do." Mick set his sights back on the bossy captive. Trout looked like he was about to burst from some kind of internal pressure. Smythe stared, open-mouthed.

"Any other questions?"

BOOM!


	9. The Battle

BOOM!

The women screamed, the sailors, Blackbird and Iron Fist alike, braced against the recoil of the ship, and Mick took off at a dead run, back to his post. The Blackbird had fired the first shot. Blaine could feel the powerful vibrations travel through the floor and into his body. Breath held, he waited for the next one, surprised when it didn't immediately happen. A full minute passed. His tension began to ease. And then all hell broke loose.

Boom!

One of the other ships had fired. Blaine couldn't tell which one. After that it was a full-on battle, the shots coming rapidly, one after another. The noise was intense. The ship rocked and swayed like a dinghy in a storm. It felt like they were moving, but the shots kept firing. He lost count of how many. All he could do was hold on to something and put every ounce of his faith into trusting the captain.

"Let us out of here!" Mr. Stanley screamed in fright. Even Smythe looked startled. "Someone's firing at us! What if we're hit?! You can't leave us here to drown!"

The Iron Fist's former navigator continued his hysterical shrieking, slapping away the hands of his shipmate and friend, Mr. Goolsby. They made an odd pair, those two, one sadly lacking in looks and compensating with a sharp tongue and ready insults; the other tall and handsome and willing to go along with whatever Stanley or Smythe said, because, as far as Blaine could tell, he was dumb as a rock.

Trout, to his credit, did his best to calm the man, patting the air and offering assurances. When that didn't work, he shocked the man into silence. "Quiet!" he bellowed, accompanied by the sound of more cannon fire.

"You hear that?" Trout held Stanley's frightened gaze and the man nodded jerkily, practically in tears. "That's the Iron Fist helping to keep you safe. Whatever ship's captain was fool enough to attack us probably thought she was dead in the water. Captain Black will soon teach him the error of his ways."

"Now," he inhaled deeply and addressed the whole room. "Do you know why the captain ordered me down here?" Stanley's head shook, wide eyes locked on the blond like a drowning man to a lifeboat. "Anderson," Trout called, "tell everyone what my orders are."

Blaine cleared his throat, trying to think of something other than the fact that they were being shot at. "He – uh – Captain Black told you to stay down here and make sure that every last man gets out if you hear the order to abandon ship."

"You see?" Trout said to Stanley. "Every last man. That's exactly what he said, though he by no means meant to exclude the women. I'm sure you would insist that the ladies be released first. Wouldn't you?" He nodded encouragingly while appealing to Stanley's chivalry, presuming he had any.

Other men were nodding and murmuring agreements, while Stanley wrung his hands, looking torn. "Yes?" He peeked over at the ladies, whose lovely faces were all turned his way, as if their fate rested solely in his hands. He straightened to his full five feet two and spoke with authority. "Of course the ladies should be released first. What kind of question is that?"

"Good," said Trout with a smile to reassure the man he had answered correctly. "Ladies first, naturally, then the rest of you. Captain has nothing to gain by your death."

"That's a lie," Smythe shoved Stanley aside, centering attention on himself. He seemed to like doing that. "We've seen his face," he said loudly enough to ensure his voice would carry. "We're all witnesses. He wouldn't dare let us leave this ship alive." Smythe looked triumphant. Blaine rolled his eyes.

All around him, the captives were quiet, considering. "He's right, you know," said a sailor across the room whose dislike of Smythe was no secret. "I seen Black with me own eyes more'n once. Giant of a man, he is. Thick, black beard, and eyes cold as death."

Everyone stared at the old salt in surprise. "That's him all right. 'Cept he's only got the one," another prisoner put in, placing a palm over one of his eyes.

"And don't forget that ugly scar what's on his neck," added a third. "Like someone tried to cut 'im ear to ear." He drew a finger across his throat.

The room started buzzing with outlandish descriptions of the pirate captain, prisoners calling out this detail or that, arguing amongst themselves about whether Captain Black was a full seven feet tall, and whether his voice was more like a thunderclap or a lion's roar.

Smythe's tantrum went largely unheard, Trout's smile had taken over his face, and Blaine, still feeling emotional, could have hugged Thad and Johnny when they kicked off a new round of discussion about the slew of tattoos covering the captain's massive arms. By the time anyone noticed that the cannon fire had stopped, most of the room's occupants had come to a consensus about Black's appearance, and they all agreed he was a fearsome sight.

"Shh," said Thad, cocking an ear toward the ceiling and pressing a finger to his lips. The motion was repeated by others until the brig began to quiet down. "Do you hear that?" he asked.

"I don't hear anything." The pretty blonde maid's words easily carried across the room.

"Exactly!" Thad crowed, spurring a raucous cheer that could probably be heard from the Iron Fist.

Trout all but skipped over to Blaine's cell in his excitement. "I'll run topside and check on things," he told the prisoner in a rush. "I'll bet Captain sent that bastard running with his tail between his legs!"

"Trout!" Blaine's arm shot out between the bars to make a grab for the man before he could disappear. "Take me with you?"

"Can't!" Trout didn't stick around to explain. "I'll be back before you have time to miss me!" he laughed, dashing out of the room.

A friendly arm was thrown around Blaine's shoulders for a quick squeeze, drawing his gaze to Johnny's sympathetic face. "You all right?" Johnny asked. "With us covering for the pirates, I mean? You were kinda quiet through all that."

Blaine's nod was distracted, his eyes drawn back to the door.

"Us sailors, well, we have to look out for each other, you know? And these pirates don't seem like such a bad lot all-in-all," Johnny went on, unconvinced. "I don't think there's a crewman here who'd say he was treated better by Clarington. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but there were times I wanted to cut the bastard down myself."

An understanding smile from Blaine seemed to ease his friend's mind. It also couldn't hurt Blaine to let himself be distracted from his worries for a short while. "It's okay, Johnny. I admire what you're doing," he said. "I've gotten to know a few of these men and they're nothing like I expected." Blaine thought back to the time he'd seen Captain laughing his heart out in the galley. "They don't act much like bloodthirsty killers, do they?" he mused.

"Nah. That they don't," Johnny agreed. "They coulda tossed us over the side and left, but they didn't. I really think they're gonna let us go."

"I think so, too." Blaine's chest hurt. "I never asked, what job did you get assigned to?"

Johnny grinned. "Tending the animals."

The statement repeated itself in Blaine's head once or twice. "Come again?"

"The animals. They've got livestock onboard. Can you imagine! Haven't you wondered why the food's so fresh here? It's just a handful, mind, a few sheep and pigs and a goat for milking." Johnny's smile was brilliant. "Only enough for the voyage. It's perfect. I don't know why more captains don't do it, except they care more about cargo than men. 'Course it's not easy keeping animals alive at sea, but if the water's calm and they're well cared for, we've got fresh lamb stew and pork that isn't rancid. And it isn't like they're meant to stay alive forever, is it?" His elbow jabbed Blaine in the arm. "If something were to happen, like a sheep breaks its leg, well then, it's roast lamb for dinner."

Blaine felt a little queasiness coming on. He really preferred not to think about how his dinner came to be on his plate. "You don't mind the work, I take it?"

"Well, it's not exactly fresh as a daisy in there, but they open the hatches up top to let in air and sunshine and there's water for washing and someone's gotta keep the floor clean and the animals fed. Right?"

Pigs. Actual pigs. Blaine chuckled. "I think that's great," he said.

"I know. It's like I'm helping in the kitchen after all." Johnny was still grinning when the door banged open, causing both guards to draw their guns on instinct until they saw it was only Trout.

He leaped down the short flight of steps and raised one arm in a universal sign for victory. Another cheer went up, and another round of curses from Smythe for the 'mutinous, pirate-loving traitors who'd all be hanged.'

"What happened?" someone shouted.

"Cap'n left 'em dead in the water! And–," he waited for the noise to die down, "to add insult to injury, he blew the lady right off her bow!"

A roar of guffaws went up from most of the sailors in the room, while Blaine and the other passengers cast puzzled frowns at them.

"He shot a woman?" Miss Pillsbury gasped in horror. She'd been almost convinced that these pirates weren't entirely indecent folk after meeting the one they called Doc, with his wholesome charm and soft curls the color of rich, sweet honey. A man like that would never ally himself with anyone truly evil. It stood to reason, then, that the Gentleman Pirate must be more gentleman than pirate. Or so she had thought.

"How could anyone do such a thing?" she tearfully lamented. "A poor, innocent, helpless lady. Murdered! Cut down like an animal in the street and all you can do is laugh? You monsters!" Her voice rose to a wail and her face was buried in her hands. Poor Doc, taken in by lies and trickery. If only she could help him escape their clutches. She should take him with her, somewhere he'd be free of this vile life and able to enjoy more pleasant companionship. She sniffled.

More laughter had kicked up, and she uncovered her face with a dainty slash of arms to give them all her best glare of reproach, a must have in the arsenal of any proper lady.

"I apologize, ma'am. I meant no disrespect." Trout ducked his head and looked up at her with soulful eyes to melt the hardest of hearts. "No women have been harmed, upon my word. The lady I spoke of was the carved wooden figurehead at the bow of the attacking ship," he explained. "Though to call her a lady is being very generous." He cracked a half-grin at the ensuing whistles and cat-calls.

Miss Pillsbury blushed at the insinuation. "I suggest you choose your words more carefully in future, young man," she scolded, before giving him her back.

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am." He scratched his head, looking oddly unamused. "What else? Oh, right. Cook asked me to fetch her a helper." Johnny perked up instantly. Had he been a puppy, his tail would have wagged. "Mr. Hart was the name. Is that you?" He looked to the footman for affirmation and called the guards over to let him out.

Blaine grasped the bars of his own cell door, silently pleading.

"Cook says she'll light the fire again, 'As soon as we've left that no-good interloper well in our wake,' was how she put it, along with some other colorful expletives that I'll leave to your imagination."

"Does she need another hand?" Johnny spoke up, looking hopeful and, bless him, giving Trout a reason to walk over.

"She didn't ask for another, but I can tell her you offered, Mr. ...?"

"Johnny James."

"Really?" asked Trout, some of his amusement at life restored. "You could be a pirate with a name like that."

"Trout," Blaine blurted out. He'd kept quiet for as long as he could bear to. His nerves were on edge with the need to insist that he be taken to the captain right the hell now!

"Sorry, Anderson. Captain has his hands full just now. He said he'd send for you tomorrow." Trout's brow furrowed in a rare display of stress.

"What's happened?" Blaine demanded. Captain was hurt. He knew it. He knew he should have stayed!

Head shaking as if he'd read Blaine's thoughts, which might well have been written on his face, Trout came closer. "It's Abe," he murmured.

Blaine nearly sagged with relief, hating himself for it the next moment. "Is he dead?" He kept his voice low enough that only Trout and Johnny could make out the question.

"Doc's with him up in surgery. That's all I know. Except that the captain will blame himself. I know that."

"Let me help. Please, Trout," he begged.

"He won't want to see anyone."

An unholy scream ripped through the air from somewhere in the ship. Men and women alike flinched at the sound. Some crossed themselves. Dozens of heads were upturned, listening.

Trout swore and turned toward the guard, holding up a hand to catch the hefty key ring he tossed over. "Don't make me regret this, Anderson. Come on."

* * *

Blaine could hardly recall their mad dash to the galley, he and Hart running to keep up with Trout, who made no pretense of guarding them. Outside Cook's space, they slowed almost to a walk before turning the corner, where Mr. Hart left them standing to put himself straight to work. Cook gratefully gave him a list of tasks to get started on. She was rattling off orders left and right in her normal stout and efficient manner, belied only by her red-rimmed eyes.

Trout waited for her to finish talking, then wrapped her in a fierce hug, ignoring the half-hearted slaps to his back and shoulders. Only Blaine saw the wobbling of her chin before she gave in and hugged back.

"He'll be fine," she insisted, swiping her apron across her face when Trout let go. "Abe's tough as nails. Everyone knows that. And you." She jabbed a calloused finger, inches from Blaine's nose. "You take care of _my_ Captain or you'll be answering to me. Understand?" She waved a hand to ward off an argument that wasn't forthcoming. "I know he'll be a right pain in the nether cheeks. He'll probably tell you to go straight to hell. But that's only because he's hurting." Another jab, this one aimed at his chest, and a mild scowl served to punctuate her claim and cover up her own embarrassing emotions.

"Yes, ma'am." Blaine dug deep for that childhood stubbornness his governesses and tutors had always accused him of. Captain would have his help whether he wanted it or not.

"We're off to Doc's now. I'll come back with the news," promised Trout. He turned for the door, then spun back. "Oh, I was supposed to ask if you need another hand from the brig? Someone was offering." He looked blank.

"It was Johnny," Blaine supplied.

"That's the one. Should I bring him back with me?"

"Well, I'm not sure he knows his way around a kitchen, but I suppose another pair of arms can't hurt when it's time to haul this lot downstairs. He's eager, anyway. I'll give him that."

"Maybe the most grateful captive you'll ever lock up," Blaine said, moving toward the door. "Ready, Trout?" He didn't wait for an answer, leaving his guard to either catch up or let him find the captain on his own.

"Keep your pants on, Anderson." Grousing, Trout nevertheless jogged up and took the lead.

On the main deck, repairs were already underway and the atmosphere was nervous concern; a family awaiting news on the fate of one of their own. "What happened to Abe, do you know?" Blaine asked along the way.

There was a wince and a nod. "Cannonball flew right over us, Puck said. He's the quartermaster. Said it missed the hull by a hair, smashed through the rail and skipped off the deck, straight through to the other side." He pointed out the missing pieces of siderail that were being boarded up. "Caught Abe in the leg when he tried to jump out of the way."

"Poor man."

"Yeah. Puck reckons he'll live, if infection doesn't set in, but..."

"He'll lose the leg," Blaine finished with a heavy heart.

Trout made no reply. "It's back this way," he said, following a familiar path toward the brig, and veering off at an early side passage. Blaine used the time to prepare himself for a different kind of battle, shoring up a wall of determination to stand against anything Captain might throw at him.

* * *

"Get him out of here. Get him out of here, Trout!" Captain came as close as Blaine had ever heard to yelling at a member of his crew.

"He only wants to help," Trout returned in a soothing voice.

"Doc doesn't need any more help!"

"Captain." Blaine stepped forward, palms out.

"No!" he shrieked and jerked away. Blaine didn't push, knowing when not to step on a man's pride. He waited quietly while the pirate pulled himself together, his back to Blaine, spine rigid, clothes and skin smeared with blood.

It was only the three of them in the passageway outside the small room that was Doc's office and surgery. "Finley and Davidson are still inside," Captain said to the closed door after he'd calmed down. "Doc poured alcohol on him to fight off infection. We had to hold him down. Then Doc gave him laudanum to knock him out while–" his voice cracked. "I should be in there," he whispered almost to himself. "I just – I couldn't breathe. And the saw," he choked to a halt.

A movement from Trout had Blaine grasping his arm and shaking his head. He motioned for the sailor to leave them alone. Trout hesitated, looking back and forth between Blaine and the captain before nodding and retreating back the way they'd come.

"Tell me about Abe," Blaine asked gently, hoping to get the captain's mind off exactly what was happening behind that door. "How long have you known him?"

Glassy eyes turned toward him, shiny with tears. "Why are you here?"

Helplessly, Blaine stared back. "I was worried about you."

His answer was scoffed at. "You shouldn't waste your time. People like me only get what they deserve." Captain took a deep breath. "Abe is a good man. One of the best I've ever known. It should be me on that table."

Blaine watched the play of emotions, for once not hidden behind any mask. He could see agony and self-loathing and everything the captain was feeling from moment to moment.

"I want the bastard who did this dead," Captain snarled. "I should have sent that ship straight to the bottom." His pale face became flushed. "It's not too late. We left them floundering, you know." The fierceness from earlier was back.

"You don't really want to do that." Blaine kept his tone soft and unabrasive. Still, his words focused the Captain's temper sharply on him.

"Why shouldn't I?" he demanded.

"Someone else could get hurt." The reply was gentle and cut straight to the heart of Captain's inner conflict.

The pirate was breathing hard, jaw clenched. Hissing in frustration, he pushed past his 'helper' and would have left him there if Blaine had let him. He didn't. He kept pace with the long, angry strides through corridors and back on deck. Men stopped as they passed, maybe hoping to glean some news of Abe's condition, which they didn't. Captain didn't stop until he was alongside the deckhouse. "Puck!" he shouted. The sailors around them quickly got back to work.

Seconds later, the quartermaster stuck his head over the rail of the upper level, blinking in surprise. "Captain?" he asked, then paled. "Abe?"

"Doc's still with him," the captain answered less furiously. "Finley and Davidson are helping with the surgery." Those men who were supposedly minding their own business bowed their heads. "Send Finley to me as soon as he comes out," he ordered.

"Aye, Captain." Puck nodded, seeming to understand that this wasn't the time for questions.

* * *

Kurt stomped out his anger, literally, retracing the path Lauren had paced across his floor not so long ago. He had trod it many times over the years to help clear his head. Very rarely had someone stood by and watched.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" he snapped. Blaine had stuck to him like a barnacle since Trout had run off – and just wait until Kurt got his hands on the blond for that. How was a man supposed to get any decent pacing done with that sad gaze following him left and right?

Blaine considered the question. "No," he said irritatingly.

Kurt fumed, until he remembered that he doesn't let people see him fume. That irritated him further, so he paced and fumed, with occasional annoyed mutterings thrown in.

Another minute passed. "Will you stop that!" Kurt paused again to glare, ready for a fight.

Blaine had the nerve to look flummoxed. "Stop what?"

"Stop staring holes through my head before I put holes in your head!"

For some reason that made the cabin boy smile. Kurt glared a little bit harder.

"Sorry," said the smiler. "Would you like me to read to you?"

Nonplussed, Kurt nearly forgot what they were arguing about. "What?"

"It might help you relax," Blaine explained.

"I'm plenty relaxed!"

"Mm-hmm." Blaine's lips pursed, reminding Kurt to look at them.

More glaring followed. "This is no time to relax, anyway." Kurt dared him to disagree.

"No, sir," he said, purely to be disobliging, Kurt was certain. "Would you rather yell? You can yell at me if you'd like. I don't mind. Or continue pacing if you prefer and I'll just be over here, not staring holes through you." Blaine made himself comfortable in one of Kurt's chairs; not his favorite, or Kurt might have had to throw things at him.

Feeling the need to take out his frustration on inanimate objects, if not upstart cabin boys, he yanked out his own chair viciously and threw himself into it with barely a wince. His arms crossed and he settled in for a good, long staring contest across the table. One he would win.

"Who was it that attacked?" Blaine looked down at his fingers twiddling together on the tabletop.

Kurt scowled at the man for handing victory over and denying Kurt the pleasure of beating him. "Some pissant trying to make a name for himself, I suppose. Either that or he saw we weren't moving at full speed and thought he'd happened across an easy target."

Blaine wore that adorable puzzled frown of his that Kurt refused to find, well, adorable. "How do you know they weren't coming to offer help if they thought we might be in trouble?"

Noting the 'we' with a small frown of his own, Kurt sighed at the naiveté of gently bred landlubbers. "Because my first shot was low and wide. A warning to change course, which they didn't." His posture unconsciously softened, one ankle crossing the other and an arm stretching across the table where his fingers could drum if the urge hit.

"Oh." Blaine pondered again, as he seemed wont to do. Kurt had already noticed he wasn't one of the masses who constantly needed to be talking. "That was foolish of them."

"To put it mildly," Kurt agreed. "They also made the very grave error of not attacking the Blackbird first. They went for the weaker ship, possibly hoping we would abandon our prize and make a run for it."

Blaine's eyes had gone wide while he listened. "Did they sink her? Were you able to rescue the men?"

"The ship took some damage, but she's still afloat and none of the men were hurt."

"What happened?"

"The other ship, which was unmarked, but that won't stop me from finding her again, began to draw level with the Iron Fist at a distance, with her cannons aimed high. The captain was obviously trying to disable, not destroy. He must have realized she was being towed and decided he wanted the Iron Fist for himself, or at least her cargo. The deckhouse got the brunt of the damage, since her sails were hoisted. But while they were busy firing against a skeleton crew like the cowards they are, we dropped sail, cut the tow lines and swung sharp across her bow."

"You mean the other ship was heading straight for us? Why would you want that?" Blaine was leaning forward in rapt attention.

"Simple. It put her bow in line with our guns." Kurt cracked a grimly satisfied smile. "It put her sails in line with our guns. This is a twenty-eight gun frigate, fourteen on each side, and we got off two rounds as we passed. By the time we circled around, her sails looked like a bunch of moth eaten old curtains. And just as we passed," Kurt leaned closer, "bulls-eye!" He slammed a fist down on the table and Blaine jumped. "We landed a hit smack on the mainmast."

"There was this moment," Kurt recalled, "where everything stopped. All eyes were on the mast, waiting, and then 'crack!'" His palm slapped the table. "I'll never forget that sound. Then slowly it started to tip, like a tree falling in the forest, taking what was left of her sails to dangle over the side. I wish you could have seen it. It was a thing of beauty."

Something that looked like pain flashed across Blaine's features, his gaze dropping back to his hands. "I wanted to stay."

Tension returned as Kurt remembered what happened next. "It wasn't safe," he said. "That captain should have surrendered. It'll take them days to make enough repairs to limp to the nearest port. They were sitting ducks, and if he was half a man he would have known when to quit. But he wasn't, and he didn't."

One of Blaine's hands slid closer to his own, almost touching. Kurt looked down at their fingertips. Blaine's perfect and soft. His streaked with Abe's blood. "We circled and came up alongside the Iron Fist, between her and the attacking ship. They'd retrieved the tow lines by then. They threw them over as we passed and dropped sail and we were on our way. That was it, I thought. The battle had been fought. It was over. I don't know why they fired again. We'd already won."

"They didn't need to do that," Kurt whispered. "We fired back. Knocked out one of her guns and left the bow in splinters. Might've killed some of her crew. Not the captain. Not the one who did this." He looked up at Blaine through blurry eyes. "What am I going to say to Abe? How do I look him in the eye and tell him we ran?"

"You didn't run," Blaine argued. "You got your ship and crew to safety. I'm sure Abe would be the first to tell you it was the right thing to do." His arm stretched and Kurt suddenly felt a warm, comforting hand cover his own. He jerked back, leaping to his feet in agitation. What exactly did Blaine think he was doing?

"Captain."

Kurt ignored the plaintive tone and strange hint of emotion that should not have been present in his prisoner's voice. He went to the washstand to scrub vigorously at the dried blood that had adhered to his skin. It had found its way onto his arms and clothes and even his face, he saw, looking in the mirror. Suddenly, he was reminded of the new rule Lauren had set down. Billy and Alex would not be allowed to prepare his bathwater. His scalp itched.

"Someone's coming," said Blaine, just as Kurt heard the footsteps outside. When he turned around, his cabin boy was already halfway to the door. He opened it to Finn, who was raising a hand to knock.

"Mr. Finley?" Kurt tried to disguise his fear, though it was far too late to bother at this point. Finn was wearing a frightening amount of blood, and looked so pale that it might all have drained from his own body. Kurt moved closer and pulled his brother into a chair, then opened a cabinet near the table, where he usually had a bottle or two of something. He poured a small brandy and pushed it into Finn's hand.

The liquor was swallowed in one gulp and Finn looked up at him, his eyes beginning to brim over. Kurt's hand covered his mouth for a moment. "Is he dead? Tell me," he forced himself to say. He felt faint when Finn's head shook in a negative, and Kurt didn't protest when a hand on his shoulder pressed him into another chair.

"He's unconscious," Finn got out. "Davidson and I held him down the whole time, in case he woke up. He didn't, thank God. Doc was amazing. I don't know how he can stand it. I couldn't watch. He worked fast. Said it had to be quick or Abe would bleed to death. Then he took the skin and wrapped it around and under and sewed it up. That's what took the most time." He swallowed convulsively. "I think I'm going to be sick."

Blaine was there in seconds with a pail he must have grabbed from the cleaning supply cupboard. Kurt sat helplessly by, tears streaming until he was handed a towel and could bury his face in it. Distantly, he heard a soft knock and Blaine stepping into the passageway, closing the door behind him. Maybe he should have cared that his prisoner was fielding his visitors, telling them who knew what, but he didn't. He and his brother had privacy to compose themselves, and that was okay.


	10. Cleanliness is Next to Uncleanliness

Kurt was utterly exhausted, bent forward in his chair, chest and cheek plopped onto the table, and arms akimbo for a short rest. He was more comfortable than he probably looked.

Peace and quiet. His first all day. It was nice. He murmured and petted the cool wood in gratitude for its unfailing support in times of need.

Blaine had managed to turn away everyone who came knocking, telling them firmly that unless they were bringing news of Abe or some other emergency, the captain was not to be disturbed and would come out when he was ready. The man was a treasure. Not one of Kurt's men had argued with him either. Strange, that.

It was a good thing for his gatekeeper that Lauren hadn't shown up. They might have come to physical blows over who, precisely, was in charge of Kurt's life. He didn't envy the winner. He was a mess. Kurt stifled a snort and folded his arms under his head.

Finn was gone, after having a good, cathartic cry on Kurt's shoulder. He had allowed Blaine to clean him up and herd him out, the prisoner escorting the first mate. Kurt giggled. Blaine had promised to return later, after taking Finn to the galley, where Kurt knew he would be pampered and spoiled by the ship's original mother hen, and then ordered to bed. Otherwise, he'd be harassed to retell his story for every sailor who walked in.

Kurt appreciated being spared the same harassment. He needed time alone, to be able to collapse in a worn-out heap on the table if he chose.

He did choose. It was possible he dozed off, because the next thing he knew, his door was slowly opening and Blaine's blurred face was peering through the crack. Kurt's head must have weighed fifty pounds from the way it lolled about on his neck when he tried to lift it.

The face vanished, and a quiet conversation took place in the passageway before Blaine slipped through alone, holding a loaded tray and nudging the door shut with a hip. "Sorry, Captain," he said softly, setting the items down with barely a clink. "I didn't mean to wake you."

Kurt grunted, sitting up drowsily and blinking his eyes back into focus. "How's Abe?" he mumbled through a yawn.

"Doc says he has a slight fever. Not life threatening," Blaine quickly added, seeing Kurt's alarm. "Puck has people sitting with him 'round the clock." He sat down and studied Kurt curiously. "How are you?"

"What do you mean? I'm fine." Kurt retorted defensively. Didn't he look fine? He swiped the back of a hand across his mouth in case of sleepy drool.

"I'm glad." The warm, sincere reply was too confusing. Kurt wasn't alert enough yet to be solving any convoluted puzzles.

"I hope you don't mind that I brought enough for both of us," said Kurt's confuser, taking dishes from the tray to place in front of Kurt. He sighed down at the generous portions and directed an accusing look across the table.

Blaine bit back a grin, confirming Kurt's suspicion that his intimidation tactics were beginning to fail.

"I know," said Blaine, without elaborating on this supposed knowledge. "Have I ever badgered you to eat?" he asked with, Kurt grudgingly admitted to himself, justified innocence. "But it's getting late and you didn't touch breakfast. You need to keep up your strength. Please, Captain?"

Reluctantly, Kurt gave in. He might have continued to be difficult in retaliation for his cabin boy's high-handedness were it not for the possibility that his stomach was about to growl a friendly hello to the delicious aromas circling under his nose. Damn Cook and her talent. He picked up a knife and fork, deciding he'd suffered enough embarrassment for one day, and silently congratulated himself when Blaine's eyes closed and he sagged with relief. He must have been nervous about setting off Kurt's temper.  _I haven't entirely lost my edge, then._

"Captain," Blaine hesitantly spoke again a while later, keeping his head down. "How much longer do you think I'll be here?"

Kurt set down the utensils and sipped his tea, considering the question. He knew it wasn't how many minutes or hours before he'd be returned to his cell that Blaine was asking. "You must be eager to see the last of us," he replied, letting his voice tilt slightly upward at the end.

"No."

The quick denial made Kurt frown. This prisoner of his didn't act much like a prisoner. Maybe Blaine had misunderstood the question. "Unfortunately, I can't give you an answer about where we're going or how long it will take. I know you must miss your old life."

One side of Blaine's mouth quirked halfheartedly. "Well, there are some things I miss," he confessed.

"I don't doubt it. Walks in the park, theater, dinner parties, dancing, charming company. The list must be endless."

"I like the company here," Blaine told his dinner plate.

Fully awake now, Kurt still couldn't make heads or tails of the man's odd statements. "You've adapted amazingly well," he prodded.

"Thank you." Blaine looked bashfully flattered. Kurt was charmed and not happy about it. "I've made some friends I'll be sorry to say goodbye to when it's time to go." The shy smile slipped away.

"Downstairs?" Kurt guiltily danced around words like  _brig_  or  _prison cell_.

"They're part of the reason I've been able to adapt," Blaine replied without quite answering the question. "There are a lot of good people in the brig. My cellmates have been extremely kind to me." Blaine, at least, could use any words he liked with a clear conscience. How nice for him. "There are also one or two I could do without." He looked up, staring with a disturbing intensity that held Kurt firmly in place and wouldn't let him look away. "You need to watch your back around Smythe."

"Smythe?" Kurt dumbly repeated, more captivated by Blaine's expression than his words.

"First mate," he said and Kurt nodded, pulling up a mental image. Tall, lanky, big ego. Snarls a lot. "He'd like nothing better than to make sure you come to a gruesome end. The sooner the better. I think he'll try to come after you," Blaine warned.

"He'll have to get in line." Kurt's head tilted to study the concerned and earnest face from a new angle. "A lot of people would like to see me get the hangman's noose. Or worse."

"Don't say that!"

Kurt was taken aback. "I'm sorry," he responded automatically.

"No, I didn't mean to– I'm sorry, Captain. This has been a stressful day." Shaking his head, Blaine closed his eyes. "Bad things shouldn't happen to good people."

It was strange, hearing his childhood mantra voiced by Blaine. More surprising, though, was the implication that Kurt was among the good people. If he was good, he had to wonder what kind of person Blaine would consider bad. If he judged people based on their true character rather than what was visible on the surface, he was a rare one.

"So, what is it that you miss, if not the grand parties and elevated company?" Kurt eased away from the awkward turn the subject had begun to take.

Blaine's grin was sheepish. "Bathing, mostly. Clean clothes. Shaving." He smoothed a palm over his bearded chin and Kurt's sympathetic fingertips rubbed lightly at his own face. Only then did he remember that he hadn't shaved that morning.

"Bathing," he murmured.

"Yes." The breathy chuckle was self-deprecating. "I know I shouldn't focus on things like that when I'm lucky to be alive at all, let alone treated so well." Blaine's hand, still lying on the table, slowly slid closer, startling Kurt. His back pressed hard into his chair and the offending appendage was withdrawn, leaving Blaine looking dejected. Which he had no right to look.

"I'm sorry." The man resumed speaking to his dinnerware. His hands had disappeared from the tabletop and his shoulders were starting to slump. Kurt was annoyed by the guilt that kicked inside his gut with pointy little boots.

"I've wanted to thank you," Blaine continued softly, causing confusion to ride roughshod over Kurt's annoyance. "When I first woke up in your brig, I never dreamed we would be so well cared for."

Confusion made way for frowning concern. "What do you mean you  _woke up_  there?"

The gentlest hazel gaze rose to meet his, stirring up deeper confusion and other feelings Kurt didn't want to analyze. Then it was hidden again behind long, sooty lashes and the spell was broken. Mostly. "I guess I was knocked unconscious." Blaine gave a small shrug. "I don't remember being brought to the Blackbird. Someone must have carried me. When I came to, I was here."

Kurt's eyes felt dry and twitchy. "Did the surgeon check your injury?" He was pleased to hear his voice come out so steadily.

"Uh, no. Unless I was still unconscious at the time."

"I see." Kurt filed away some questions for his officers.

"I was awake by the time you came down that first day and introduced yourself. You were so kind."

Kurt gaped, affronted.  _I certainly was not!_  his outraged mind shouted.  _I was callous and menacing._  Unfortunately, Blaine was deaf to his inner rantings.

"I didn't recognize it as kindness at first, focused as I was on having been captured and locked up by pirates." Blaine grinned.

 _Are you laughing at my pirating techniques?_  Kurt bristled.

"I honestly thought we'd all be killed."

_Hmph. That's better._

"But you told us we wouldn't be harmed." Blaine looked at him again, eyes so filled with wonder that Kurt blushed. Next time he captured a ship, he'd have to be more careful about spouting promises that could be misconstrued as  _kind_. "And I believed you."

Well. If a tiny smidgeon of imagined kindness could make Blaine look at him like that, maybe Kurt would permit the man to hold onto his delusions, just this once.

"Your men didn't touch the women,  _and_  you gave them back their modesty, which was very gallant," Blaine blithely continued to list Kurt's apparently numerous errors. "You even made sure we had blankets, didn't you." A finger pointed at him accusingly. "I know that was you. And the food! You won over a lot of sailors with the food. I think they were half starved under Captain Clarington."

"Cook," Kurt muttered, trying to shift blame.

"But that wasn't an end to your kindness," Blaine declared. Kurt sulked. "On top of everything else, you let us out! You gave us fresh air. Exercise. Useful activity and relief from boredom. That's what shocked me most. It's certainly what has made me happiest." His piercing gaze was too much. Kurt turned away, embarrassed and insulted. 'Petulant,' some might say. 'With offended dignity,' he would correct them.

"In fact, if I didn't know better, I might suspect..." Blaine trailed off.

 _What? Suspect what?_  Kurt eyed him askance, remembering that his cabin boy could be quite irritating at times.

Leaning in, Blaine lowered his voice, glancing quickly to each side. Kurt suppressed a huff. "I might suspect there's not a cruel bone in your body."

Morosely, Kurt wondered if this was it, the end of his pirating career. He might as well move to France and charter weekend pleasure cruises for lovers.

"Of course, I would never spread such a ridiculous tale. No one would believe it. You're Captain Kurt Black." The way he spoke the name made Kurt sound like some sort of living legend. "Terror of the sea. Feared by any man in his senses. Small children and animals cower at the mere mention of your name."

Kurt sniffed, mollified. "Thank you."

Blaine's beatific smile was far too inviting. Kurt looked away again, before his annoyingly handsome and charming cabin boy could deduce any of his other secrets. "It's funny you should mention baths," he backtracked their conversation with another forced segue. Blaine was still smiling, and Kurt was still paying no attention to it.

"Sorry, Captain." He didn't look sorry. Not that Kurt was looking. "I wasn't trying to complain. There have been a few evenings lately where we've been given the opportunity to wash. Of course, I thank  _you_  for that." Kurt's lips went tight. "I guess that aboard ship it's perfectly normal to have no more than the occasional sponge bath. It's just not what I've been used to. Neither is stripping in a room full of men." For some inexplicable reason, Blaine chuckled. "Putting soiled clothes back on after wiping down with a damp cloth isn't altogether pleasant either, but it doesn't seem to bother the crew. The women on the other hand, they're probably–"

"Anderson."

"Yes, Captain?"

"Stop talking."

"Yes, Captain."

"What I was trying to say was that I could use one myself." Kurt plucked at the sleeve of his bloodstained shirt, keeping his eyes on that alone and not on anything that might cause his cheeks to grow warm.

"Oh! Of course. I'm sorry." Blaine shook his head, completely abashed. "Billy did say that a cabin boy's duties include those of a valet, and assisting at bath would definitely fall into that category. I should have thought of that myself. My father's valet has always–"

"Anderson."

"Sorry, Captain."

* * *

The galley was mostly deserted when they walked in. Cook was seated at a table with Puck, having coffee and conversing quietly, leaving clean-up to her helpers. The quartermaster's mild greeting of, "Captain," was not echoed by Cook. She plonked down her cup and rose to yank the pirate into a bone-crushing embrace, squeezing his neck until he gasped for air.

"It's against ship's policy to strangle the captain." Puck's dry comment earned the captain his release and himself a resounding backhand to the shoulder.

"You hold your tongue," Cook retorted. "Captain knows good and well I wouldn't harm a hair on his head." Behind her, the man in question had a hand to his throat while his open mouth drew in some much needed oxygen.

"You must be one of us now," Billy said quietly, bumping shoulders with Blaine.

"What do you mean?" Blaine turned to clear the tray he was carrying.

"Cap'n," said Billy.

As explanations went, it was less than helpful. "What about the captain?"

Billy's eyes rolled, Alex chuckled, and Blaine began to feel left out. "Isn't it obvious?" Billy tipped his head toward the other group, who were now deep in conversation. "Cap'n's bein' Cap'n, instead of–." His posture went ramrod straight and his expression morphed into what Blaine presumed was meant to be icy aloofness, but came off more like a queen deigning to look down upon her subjects. Billy had wisely kept his back to the captain, and Blaine couldn't help laughing as he glanced between the two.

Captain's gaze flicked over to him at the sound, and the brightness of Blaine's smile edged another notch upward. He didn't try to hide his growing affection for this extraordinary band of outlaws, or for their leader. He held the gaze while Captain looked at him thoughtfully, and admired the handsome profile when the pirate turned back to his friends.

Blaine was still smiling when he caught a meaningful look pass between the two boys. "What?" he asked.

"Nothing," said Alex. He and Billy wore identical, knowing grins. Blaine blushed.

"Just tell me what he needs," he grumbled good-naturedly, giving Billy a light punch on the arm when he only cocked a brow and grinned wider. "For his bath! Get your mind out of the gutter," Blaine laughed.

"We will if you will," Alex chimed.

Unwilling to make such a promise, Blaine replied, "How much water should I heat?"

* * *

"Are you sure you don't need help with that?" asked the captain.

"I can manage, sir." Blaine pretended not to have heard Captain's note of skepticism. He squatted down on the floor to duck his head under the notched pole that had two filled buckets hanging from each end. Then, balancing the pole on his shoulders, he rose slowly to his feet, working hard to make it look like no work at all.  _Holy hell, that's heavy!_  "Would you like me to go first?" he asked and spun slowly away without waiting for a reply. With the captain behind him, Blaine let his shoulders roll forward, pulling his shirt and vest taut across his back. Now that he was aware of the captain's possible interest, he'd decided it couldn't hurt to give the man something to look at. If Captain wanted to ignore the attraction, that was his choice. Whether or not Blaine made it easy for him, however, was  _his_  choice.

His biceps tightened and bunched when Blaine hefted the weight, lifting a bit of it off his shoulders. He pushed out his chest and stretched his torso, walking tall. Turned out it was harder than it sounded, showing off his body and putting himself on display, all without being obvious. He felt foolish, like a rooster strutting past the henhouse. Captain's attraction to him, presuming it existed outside Blaine's imagination, had begun with Blaine being himself and could be nurtured the same way, he decided. Honest attraction was more desirable in any case, if a relationship was to last.

That thought gave Blaine pause. Since when did he think this could turn into a relationship? Once he left this ship, he'd never see the captain again. This was, potentially, a meaningless fling. Nothing more.

Now why was  _that_  thought so depressing?

After the arduous trek down narrow halls and staircases – with only minor spills along the way, thank you – Blaine was no closer to an answer. He also wasn't prepared to stop his pursuit of Captain Black, so all he could do was continue on the course he'd chosen and hope for the best. "Billy said there's a storeroom nearby where the tub is kept?" he asked, stretching his back and shoulders after lowering the buckets to the floor. From the corner of his eye, he saw the captain staring at his body again, mask falling into place when Blaine faced him.

Giddily certain now that Captain wanted him, Blaine was only bothered that he hadn't observed anything stronger than physical attraction. The whole question of a relationship versus a fling might be moot. If he could seduce the pirate, and he fully intended to try, he'd have to keep in mind that softer feelings might be unwelcome. He'd have to go into this with his eyes open and his heart guarded. It should be simple enough. He'd never suffered pain or regret after parting from anyone in the past, so there was no reason to believe this might be different, no matter how different it felt at the moment.

They retrieved the tub, and he filled it to a scant three or four inches, per Billy's instructions. Blaine sighed. Scant or not, he itched to climb in there himself. He shook away the fruitless longing and went about gathering towels and soap and a cloth for the captain, who, he noted, was making no move to get into the bath. He stood by, fidgeting and darting glances between Blaine and the tub. Blaine, being a good valet, albeit a new one, marched over and began loosening the long cord that laced up the front of Captain's shirt.

Indignant hands slapped almost instantly at Blaine's quick, helpful fingers. "What are you–? Stop that!" Captain squeaked. Manfully.

"Of course, sir." Blaine's hands lowered and clasped loosely together. He gave a small bow of the head, channeling Mr. Figgins, his father's long-time valet. Then he put on what his family's housekeeper liked to call his guiltily innocent face, eyes slightly wide, stance relaxed and still. It was a look he'd often worn as a child after breaking some rule or other.

"Your bath is ready, sir," he pointed out, refraining from mentioning Captain's lack of progress in undressing himself. "Is there anything else you need?" he asked with an impressively neutral tone and no fires blazing in his eyes.

Captain's tension began to visibly ease, though his fingers were still grasping the deep V of his shirt, as if fearing another attack on that front. "Um," he managed, and it was all Blaine could do not to pull the man into his arms. This new vulnerable, insecure side to the pirate was as irresistible as it was unexpected.

"Yes, sir?" Blaine urged, gaze sliding downward to rest on the mouth that he hadn't dared to stare at so openly before. Seduction was chock full of perks, he could tell already. This was going to be fun.

"Chāmpo," well-formed lips curled around the unknown word with an accent that made Blaine's breath hitch.

"Sir?" he asked softly, hoping for a repeat. Or better yet, that voice whispering to him in a foreign tongue all the things that Captain would like to do to him.

To Blaine's disappointment, he only went to his armoire and opened a drawer, pulling out a corked amber bottle that Blaine had noticed, but couldn't identify, while straightening and organizing the wardrobe's vastly interesting contents.

"It's, um," Captain stammered, looking at the bottle in his hands with a faint dusting of pink across his cheeks. Blaine's disappointment was replaced by a powerful desire to comfort.

"Yes?" he gently encouraged.

Captain cleared his throat. "It's from India."

Blaine stepped closer, placing a palm under the bottle and letting the fingers of his other hand wrap around the captain's, whose sharp inhale and quick withdrawal contrasted with Blaine's eagerness to touch. He was confident that the pirate's surprise at being touched would soon fade if he kept at it. Meanwhile, he would do his best to ease the captain's discomfort, because it seemed he was embarrassed by, as well as obsessive about, his personal grooming habits. "Is it bath oil?" Blaine asked politely, popping the cork and bringing the bottle to his nose. "That scent is wonderful. What is it?"

"It's gooseberry and hibiscus, but..."

Blaine sniffed again and smiled. "But?"

"I – it isn't bath oil," Captain muttered.

"It isn't?" Blaine poured a tiny puddle into his hand and found the substance to be viscous and satiny. A fresh infusion of interest manifested itself in his raised brows. "Now I am curious."

"It's for cleaning hair." Bright blue orbs commanded him to not laugh.

"Hair." Baffled, Blaine placed the bottle near the tub and rubbed his palms together. Whatever the stuff was, it wasn't oily. "You mean it's soap?"

"Sort of. Not exactly. Well, it's special soap, just for hair." The captain pulled a face, and then the full and lush bottom lip Blaine had so recently admired was subjected to a biting session that, frankly, should have been Blaine's to administer.

He, however, was busy being skeptical. "Why do you need two kinds of soap?" It sounded like poor Captain had been taken in by a snake oil salesman. Special soap indeed.

Captain blew out a breath. "It cleans without drying the hair out." He gave Blaine a mulish, challenging look. "And I can use it as often as I want."

"Really?" asked Blaine, receiving a tight nod in reply.

Looking at the captain's soft, shiny hair, Blaine came to realize he'd never seen it coated with the coconut oil that he and everyone else he knew used to combat the harsh effects of washing. He stared silently until the captain's chin began to quiver almost imperceptibly. "That's fantastic!"

The captain looked startled. "It is?"

"Yes! Why have I never heard of this? Hop in and let's see how it works." Blaine was quick to answer, shooting the captain a dazzling smile. He could tell it was dazzling by the priceless expression it garnered before his words fully registered.

"Oh! No, I don't think–"

"Wait until I write my mother about this," Blaine interrupted. "Can you only get it in India? What did you say it was called again? Come on, in you go. Quick now, before the water gets cold," Blaine prattled, trying to shift into valet mode, and not quite succeeding in his renewed attempt to imitate the unflappable Mr. Figgins while simultaneously prevent any counterproductive backtalk.

Of course, Figgins was a happily married man and father of five. His thoughts weren't likely to wander down naughty, naked paths at bath time with his employer. No, those ideas were channeling straight from Blaine's own libido, and he hadn't even gotten Captain's shirt off yet. That needed to be rectified.

"Here, let me help." Blaine boldly reached again for the laces that were keeping him from his goal, but the captain hop-stepped backwards. "You prefer to do it yourself, sir? That's fine. I'll just fetch your nightclothes while you undress," Blaine all but ordered him into the tub and turned his back on the captain to cut off any protests. He buried his nose in the armoire to give the man his privacy, and kept his huge smile out of sight at the sound of a reluctant, capitulating sigh, followed by the rustle of clothing and light splashing of water.

Blaine's heart was cheering with glee and thumping violently against his ribs when he went to lay a clean nightshirt across the bed and saw the captain in his peripheral vision. So much bright white skin was on display that he had to stop and catch his breath before he could dare to face the tub again. Determined to give no hints that might scare Captain away and undo all his work, Blaine erased the evidence of his thoughts from his face before spinning around and addressing the pirate again.

"I'm afraid you're out of clean sleep trousers, sir," he crisply informed. "I've laid out a nightshirt for you." Blaine went about picking up the newly discarded items from the floor and adding them to the bag of soiled clothing. "Will it be laundry day again soon, sir?"

"Thank you," came the hoarse and distracted reply. The captain was huddled in the bath, arms wrapped around his bare legs and not getting any cleaner.

"Sir?" Blaine quirked a brow when nothing else was said.

"What?" Captain's wide, distrustful eyes peeked up from where his chin was pressed into his knees.

Blaine sighed inwardly, wondering if it was him that brought out this extreme modesty or if the captain had just never been unclothed in front of a servant before. There was nothing unusual in it, if one discounted Blaine's ultimate wish of them being unclothed together. Keeping a blank expression, he moved with brisk efficiency to kneel behind the tub, reaching for the cup and pulling a pail of water close by his side.

Twisting his neck without letting go of his knees, Captain's startled gaze followed his every movement. "What are you doing?" he asked in a panic.

"Assisting you, as any valet would do," Blaine answered truthfully and poured water over the back of the thick, luxurious hair. "Look up, please. I need to get your hair wet." He paused, considering. "It does need to be wet first for this hair soap to work?" he asked. Never having heard of soap in liquid form, he wasn't sure it required water, except it had dried up and felt a bit sticky when he tried to rub it into his palm.

"Well. Yes," Captain reluctantly confirmed, still eyeing Blaine over his shoulder.

"Very good. Look up, please," he repeated. "Or down if you prefer." Blaine picked up the washcloth and slung it onto Captain's shoulder, slapping him lightly across the nose and causing him to blink. But the panicked look was fading more and more the longer Blaine carried on as if this were perfectly normal behavior. Which it would have been, if he were a valet.

Slowly, warily, Captain turned his face away and down, pressing the cloth to it. "This is very strange." He heaved another put-upon sigh and left Blaine to dampen his hair and stare at his long, smooth back, which he did with pleasure.

Wet tendrils soon clung to Captain's neck and dripped onto his forehead. Blaine set the cup aside and used both hands to pull the hair back out of Captain's face until the pirate was looking straight ahead instead of down, and rubbing the cloth over his eyes and cheeks. "Thank you," he murmured, to Blaine's delight. Everything about this situation filled him with delight.

The curious amber bottle was next. Blaine was eager to see this miracle soap for himself. "How much do you use?" he asked, holding it out so Captain could see from the corner of his eye what Blaine referred to.

Unfortunately, the captain snatched both the opportunity and the bottle from Blaine's grasp. "I can do it," he said. He couldn't see the disappointment he'd caused behind him. But disappointment did not stop Blaine from craning his neck over a bare shoulder to watch as Captain poured a palmful of the liquid. Then Blaine tugged the bottle away again and corked it, determined to make himself useful.

"Does it always foam up like that?" he asked with unfeigned curiosity, intently watching the captain's hands rub over his hair with more speed than effectiveness. He was still hunched into an uncomfortable looking pose, and Blaine knew his own presence was very unwelcome; a problem that needed to be addressed if there was to be any hope of doing this again. "The scent is stronger now." He leaned closer. "May I touch it?" he asked softly.

The captain went still, hands clenched in his hair. His head turned slowly to send a suspicious look through the gap of his bent arm. "Touch what?"

"The lather? Your hair, I suppose?" Blaine showed his teeth.

"I don't–" Captain began.

"Please?" Blaine's eyelashes fluttered outrageously until he got the hoped for laugh.

"Fine," he was grudgingly, grinningly allowed. Captain started to face forward again, then spun back with a jerk. "I am actually capable of taking care of myself, you know."

"Yes, sir. I know." Blaine's splayed fingers took over the extremely pleasant task of washing Captain's hair. "I've never doubted your ability to take care of yourself," he said, leaning closer still. Blaine's gaze dropped as low down the captain's back as the tub allowed, his nails scraping gently down the captain's nape. He smiled a slow, contented smile when the sudsy head began to droop forward.

Blaine's fingers continued to work slowly and thoroughly through the silky locks while he spoke in a low, soothing voice. The captain, he'd often noticed, seemed to find conversation relaxing. It was important that he relax, or Blaine might never be permitted run his hands and mouth over all that wonderful, marble skin. So he chatted quietly, telling Captain about Mr. Figgins and about the family housekeeper, Ms. Beiste, who had practically raised him and who ran his parents' home with a fierce protectiveness to rival that of Cook. As a child, he'd taken every opportunity to sneak off to be with the servants. They were the only adults he had known who would take the time to answer his endless questions and not complain that he was underfoot.

The captain's breathing became deep and even as he listened without interruption, his eyelids growing heavier and heavier until they simply remained closed. His head moved easily with every slight push and pull of Blaine's hands, and his hair was clean long before Blaine considered stopping.

He was more massaging the captain's head than washing his hair in the end. Soapy foam lay thick on the back of Captain's slender neck and dripped down his spine. It would have felt so right for Blaine to slide his arms around the captain's torso and press soft kisses to the faint, but definite little freckles that were sprinkled across his shoulders, but he didn't. Small, careful steps were needed to get Blaine where he wanted to be. Only, he couldn't bear to stop touching the captain altogether. Not yet.

Swallowing his impatient desire for more, now, he pulled one hand away with effort and refilled the cup with rinse water. The other slid downward and around Captain's neck toward his throat. Fingers spread wide, because they couldn't help themselves, and brushed softly over the hollow of his throat and across his Adam's apple to finally cup his jaw and apply gentle pressure. Thumb stroking along the tantalizing stubble of his jawline, Blaine helped the captain's chin tilt upward, so warm water could rinse away the lather. It sluiced down his shoulders and back in slippery, white trails while Blaine's hand slid down the arched throat of its own accord to rest again at the deep hollow between jutting collarbones.

It was several cups of water later before he could separate his fingers from the warm skin to spear into half-rinsed hair and finish the job. By the time he did, his voice had dried up to nothing and the ache inside him was pulsing. He had to stand and turn away. Tugging at his waistcoat and wiping damp palms down his thighs, Blaine cleared his scratchy throat. "All done, sir," he managed and went to fold down the blankets of the large, firm bed, flattening and smoothing out the tiniest wrinkles.

There was no reply. It felt like an eternity before he heard the sounds of the captain washing and rinsing. Blaine's eyes closed against the temptation to look, which made the sounds resonate more clearly across the room. A damp cloth sliding over slick, soapy skin. So much skin. Water being splashed within the tub over legs that might have stretched out until they were no longer concealing anything. Blaine's forehead broke out in a sweat.

"I'm almost finished." Captain's soft voice drew a startled gasp from him. "Do you," the voice continued and stopped. "The water's not very warm anymore, but you can use it if you want," he said.

Blaine had jerked around in surprise before an eyeful of bright flesh made him spin back again, breathing hard. "Sir?" he asked, hardly daring to hope the captain meant what it sounded like.

"You did say you wanted a bath?"

Blaine could hear the smile in his voice now and exhaled a helpless laugh of his own. "I would love a bath." He began to bounce on the balls of his feet, huge smile aimed at the wall.

"All right. I'll just be another minute. Could you, uh, close your eyes?"

"Yes, sir!" Blaine would have happily agreed to anything, even to not looking at a nude and presumably stunning Captain Black as he rose from the tub. "Captain?" he asked eagerly as a new thought occurred to him.

"Yes?" The sound of skin being rubbed down by a towel paused and the tone had gone wary again.

"Would it be too much to ask... I mean, feel free to say no." Blaine slapped himself on the forehead. "I'm an idiot. Of course you are free to say no."

"What am I saying no to, Anderson?"

"I was just wondering if I might be allowed to try your hair soap?" Blaine's hands were clasped together at his chest and his teeth clenched in a wide and silent  _eeeee_  that was utterly wasted on the wall in front of him.

There was a snort of amusement that was so human and normal and comfortable, it made Blaine feel ridiculously warm and fluttery inside. "I suppose you should get to use it on your own hair after washing mine." The toweling resumed, as did Blaine's giddy, frenetic hopping.

* * *

Kurt kept an eye on the other side of the room while he toweled down. He could have dried himself in a rush and thrown the dressing gown on over damp skin, but his hands didn't seem to want to cooperate. They dragged the towel lazily over his chest and wrapped it around each thigh when he set his foot on the rim of the tub. No more than half an hour ago, he was coiled up tighter than a snake, ready to strike if Blaine so much as looked at him the wrong way, and now he was so relaxed he barely recognized himself, standing completely unclothed with his cabin boy in the room and not obsessing over it.

The feel of those hands buried in his hair, the blunt nails dragging against his scalp and the soft puffs of warm breath against his nape had sent him into a dreamy trance he hadn't quite woken from yet. When gentle fingers had wrapped around his throat, Kurt hadn't flinched. He hadn't felt so completely free of anxiety and tension and just plain stress for longer than he could remember. Even knowing the danger of relaxing so thoroughly hadn't been enough to keep him on that knife's edge of readiness that defined his daily life. An attack could happen at any time, in any form. That was the reality he lived with every waking moment, as well as throughout the too-brief periods of restful sleep he managed to grasp. Although, lately, his sleep had been less fraught with nightmares than he'd been used to. He wasn't entirely certain he wasn't asleep right now, what with the lethargy that had infused his bones.

Blaine, contrarily, was a ball of energy. He vibrated with it, like a lightning storm ready to break. Kurt could feel it from across the room, crackling through the air. It was contagious; not the energy, but the happiness exuding from him. All of that, for a bath. Kurt caught sight of himself in the mirror, startled to see such a warm, genuine smile softening his face and sparkling from his normally dull eyes. It was a wonderful feeling, to cause someone so much gladness that he danced with it, even under these circumstances: a prisoner being granted something so simple from the very person who had taken it away in the first place.

He finished tying his robe and toned down his smile for appearance's sake before addressing the man who, although clearly bursting with excitement at the prospect of jumping into the tub and splashing around like a child, nevertheless hadn't made the slightest sound of impatience while he waited. "You may turn around now," Kurt told him, forcing the corners of his mouth back down from where they had unconsciously risen again.

Within the pocket of his robe, Kurt's hand curled into a fist at the sight of Blaine's pure, uninhibited joy. Kurt concentrated hard on the feel of his fingernails digging into his palm, and on keeping his unaffected mask in place. Blaine knew too much about him already. Less than a month after taking the man captive and locking him in a dark, airless cargo hold, Kurt could sense no animosity and almost no fear whatsoever. Blaine looked ready to pick Kurt up and spin him around, which would force Kurt to do something he didn't want to do, like make empty threats or, he grimaced, leave him in the brig.

Locking Blaine away, this glorious, effervescent man with his innate goodness and his incredible capacity for making the best of a difficult situation, required more cruelty than Kurt felt capable of. He also didn't relish the idea of not seeing that handsome face anymore. As long as Blaine was aboard the Blackbird, Kurt could no longer deny himself the pleasure of looking at him.

None of those thoughts were evident on his face, he hoped. In any case, he decided that a distraction was in order and sat himself down at the table, determined to get some paperwork done while a painfully sexy man stripped and bathed a few short feet away. He could do it. He would do it. He felt his fingers digging into his thigh and forced the hand to relax, holding the dressing gown closed more tightly over his legs.

"Get your bath, and then I'll escort you back. I want to check on Abe, anyway," Kurt said and opened his personal logbook. He needed something to focus on so he could tune out the sound of Blaine undressing and climbing into the tub. Or... he could wait until Blaine wasn't looking and take a small peek. Very fast. Blaine would never know.

Kurt would know. And he wasn't wearing anything under his robe to help conceal the inevitable effect if he were to succumb. He couldn't. Then again, how could he not? No, he was stronger than that. He would not look!

"Did you say something, Captain?"

"What?" Pulled out of his thoughts, Kurt turned by rote.

_Oh._

Barefoot. Shirtless. Wearing only the knee breeches that left his shapely calves in full view. Bathed or unbathed, Blaine was exquisite. Trim and powerful, lithe and muscled, he was masculine beauty. He was Kurt's fantasy come to life. He was delectable. He was speaking.

"What?" Kurt rasped again and got a soft, sweet smile for it.

"I asked if you would mind if I exercise?"

Kurt's brows knit. "You need more work to do before you can bathe?"

Blaine's smile grew and he shook his head. "Not work. I can exercise right here." He got to his hands and knees and Kurt's mouth went dry. But then he did the oddest thing. He stretched forward, supported on hands and toes – toes! – and proceeded to lower himself almost to the floor only to rise again until his arms were straight. Down and up he went, back straight, corded muscles bulging and straining, hips bobbing again and again in that suggestive pose. It looked positively obscene. Kurt couldn't stop staring.

"What are you doing?" Kurt asked, his voice sounding strangled. Blaine looked over at him, grinning, sweating, and persisting with his bizarre, enticing movements.

"Exercising," he said. His breathing had grown fast and loud. A minute later he sat back on his feet, hands splayed over his thighs and smiling at his own oddity. "It's something my boxing instructor taught me. Strengthens the arms and chest." He curled an arm, fist aimed at his temple, showing off the impressive musculature of his upper arm. Kurt devoured the sight.

His mouth opened and closed once or twice without his consent. "Why?" Kurt got out. He needed a drink.

Blaine shrugged, the smile never leaving his face. "I like to keep in shape."

Kurt nodded in mute approval, following a glistening trail of perspiration down Blaine's firm chest. Where was that damned drink?

"It works up a sweat, though," Blaine kept talking while Kurt tried to swallow around a tongue that seemed to have doubled in size, "and I've tried to avoid making my clothes smell any worse than they already do." His deep chuckle made Kurt's blood race in ways that brought his awareness back to himself. He stealthily draped an arm across his lap.

Unable to think of anything intelligent to say, and unsure the words would come out coherently if he did, Kurt simply nodded again and went back to staring sightlessly at his journal. There were words there. He turned a page. Words there too. Pants dropped to the floor with a soft thump. Kurt felt extremely thirsty. Another page turned with a crinkle of paper. He flattened it down with a hand to keep it quiet. Feet stepped into water and joints popped as Blaine lowered himself to sit in the tub. At his low moan, all the hair on Kurt's arms stood on end. He poured himself a glass of wine with shaking hands. This was the worst idea ever.

 _Logbook,_  he remembered, bringing the loopy writing into focus. He flipped past the old entries and opened the ink bottle to dip his quill. At the top of a blank page he input the date and began to write, pushing other thoughts and sounds from his mind.

_Against all reason, it would seem that my prisoners have grown comfortable in their holding cells. My men and I have generously let them live, and the captives have mistook. I must therefore endeavor to show less civility in future. How I may do this, I do not know, as they already suffer greatly at my hands._

_I have separated them from their destination, their livelihoods, their possessions, and even their captain. I have packed them like cattle into cages, placed armed men to guard them, and forced them into servitude. They have nowhere to go, no hope of escape, and yet they are complacent._

_Should I freeze or starve them? Would that not result in sickness and disease, thereby increasing the burden on my own men who must care for them? Should I make threats against their lives? There is little gain in killing, and idle threats would only make me look weak. Should I have them bound and whipped? There may come a time when it is justified for certain prisoners, but that time hasn't come and their numbers are few._

_As for the rest, comfort in the face of cruelty defies logic, and I confess I don't know what to do about it, or how to be any more barbaric than I already am. Mankind has a greater capacity to adapt than I ever knew._

Kurt read the last sentence again and looked to his companion. Blaine's legs dangled outside one end of the oblong tub, swinging happily against the tin, dark hair sticking to wet shins, and his elbows flashed in and out of Kurt's line of sight as he lay on his back in the water, scrubbing his hair.

What would he do if Kurt were to kneel beside the tub and play the valet himself? Kurt would have to feel around for the soap and cloth before using them on all that golden skin, washing every inch, proceeding downward to circle and stroke him to hardness. He would be easier to clean that way, Kurt reasoned. Then his hand and cloth would move farther, cupping and fondling, gently tugging, testing the sensitivity there before delving farther still, into the crevice that would surely enjoy a slow and thorough cleansing.

And once he was clean and rinsed, he would stand, his body covered in thousands of tiny water droplets. It would only make sense for Kurt to lick them away. And if his tongue were put to use, drying Blaine from base to tip, those strong hands would certainly curl into Kurt's hair, urging him to do more. He would have no choice but to take the entire length into his mouth or Blaine might suffer, and Kurt could never be the cause of more suffering.

He would have to suck and lick and dig his tongue into Blaine's slit for his own good. Up and down he would go, like Blaine's obscene exercise, working up his own sweat and earning his reward, then swallowing it down. And once he had, Blaine would stand shakily, unable to move, and Kurt would grip his trembling thighs and resume his tongue drying on the other side with long, swiping licks over fleshy mounds and between them, spreading and spearing and tasting the puckered skin he'd washed so long and so well.

"Did you say something, Captain?" Blaine's head poked out of the tub at the sound of Kurt's whimper. He sat up, looking concerned. "Are you all right, sir? You look flushed."

Kurt tore his gaze away and gulped down the last of his wine. "Fine," he choked. "Are you almost finished?"

"Yes, sir. I was just rinsing out the last of your hair soap. That is some wondrous stuff. I will definitely have to visit India in my travels." Sounds of splashing accompanied gurgled chatter as Blaine apparently dumped the last of the rinse water over his own head.

Kurt quickly began to clean his quill and put everything away, except the wineglass, which he refilled and drained.

"Are you sure you're all right, sir?" Blaine asked, and Kurt made the mistake of glancing his way. He was standing in the tub, facing Kurt, toweling down his chest. Kurt gasped and looked away so fast he nearly did his neck an injury. "Sorry, Captain. I've sort of had to give up modesty since I've been here. I didn't mean to offend you."

"It's fine!" Kurt stared up at the dark sky visible through the porthole, his voice high and airless, his active mind filling in blanks from the momentary glimpse of Blaine's perfect physique. The sound of the towel on his body quickened and then trousers were snapped open. "Wait!" Kurt's mouth jumped ahead of his brain. Blaine went quiet. Kurt refused to look.

"Sir? I was just going to get dressed so I can clean up this mess."

"No, don't," Kurt blurted, clenching his eyes shut and calling himself every kind of idiot. "I mean, don't put those filthy clothes back on," he said, trying to make his voice sound authoritative. "They stink." Kurt blanched at his total lack of tact.

Surprisingly, Blaine agreed with him. "Yes, sir, but they're all I have."

"Put on something of mine until you can wash them." Kurt hoped the offer might redeem him a bit in Blaine's eyes. After all, it wasn't his prisoner's fault he didn't have a change of clothing.

"Something of yours?" Kurt was asked with an insulting level of astonishment. He frowned.

"Yes," he barked. "Is there something remarkable in that?"

"No! No, sir, it's just that your clothing is so very fine."

Kurt felt moderately better. "Yes, well, I'm sure you can find something suitable. And lay out something for me as well. I don't plan to visit Abe in my nightshirt."

"Yes, sir!" Blaine's smile was so big it was audible. Kurt was beginning to get used to that.

* * *

Blaine led the way toward the brig after putting the captain's cabin back to rights. He'd had such a smile on his face for the past hour, he'd be lucky if it didn't stick there permanently. Nothing beat the feeling of being squeaky clean. His hair was nearly dry now and curling around his ears, and he couldn't seem to stop touching it, because it had never felt quite like this before. His fingers reached up to sift through the grime-free locks again, and heard Captain chuckle behind him. Blaine just beamed a smile over his shoulder, letting his gaze roam over the pirate's much straighter hair. He would've liked to touch that as well. He hoped to wash it for him again soon.

"I can't thank you enough," Blaine said when they came to a stop outside the door to the brig. The clothes he'd borrowed were snug across his chest and thighs and cut in a style he'd never worn. The trousers reached all the way to his feet, which felt odd but he liked it, and the shirt billowed around his arms, bunching under his vest and puffing out at the edges. He'd thought it looked very dashing when he checked the mirror, and he had caught a gleam of admiration in the reflection of Captain's eyes, too. Blaine couldn't be happier. Well, he could think of one thing that would make this evening better. His gaze dropped to pink lips that were a little too far away from his own.

"You were doing me a favor, believe me, Anderson," Captain teased. Blaine loved that he could be teased. He hoped never to lose that again.

"You know, you called me Blaine before," Blaine's quiet pronouncement brought the captain's teasing to a sudden stop.

"What? When? No I didn't," he denied, his gaze shifting guiltily away.

"This morning, on deck, before you sent me away. You called me Blaine," he said, smiling gently to let the pink cheeked captain know it was okay. "May I ask one last favor before you go?" Blaine's eyes went soft and pleading.

Captain shook his head, though not in denial. He seemed to be shaking off thoughts of using Blaine's first name. "You are shameless, aren't you?" he said, still trying to regain his equilibrium. "What is it?"

Blaine bit his lip to keep from grinning too wide. "I was wondering if I might be allowed to wash the other prisoners' clothes too?"

"Do you realize how much work that is?"

"I'm sure some of them would be willing to help." Blaine was not above begging. "Please? Some of them smell worse than I did. I think they had a head start."

Rolling his eyes and doing a poor job of hiding his amused indulgence, Captain gave in. "Fine. I hereby proclaim tomorrow to be laundry day. Are you happy?"

"Yes, Captain!" Blaine got his bounce back. With effort, he didn't fling himself into the man's arms, but he did wish he could give the pirate the hug that such an occasion called for. "Thank you, Captain," Blaine let his wishes and feelings shine from his eyes, hoping they would be seen and understood.

From the way the captain's eyes seemed to widen and his smile slowly faded as if forgotten, Blaine was sure some sort of message got through. "Goodnight, Captain," he said softly and opened the door, walking away before it was too late and he lost the struggle against kissing him.


	11. Down the Hatch

"All right, Cap?"

"Mmhm."

Somehow, Puck wasn't completely reassured by the distracted mumble, so he meandered over to the deckhouse rail for a closer view of his brooding friend. "Sure?" he asked. "Only you've been watching them awhile now." Down on the main deck, men were hauling water and slinging drying lines. Canvas bags filled to the brim had been sorted into piles. "Lotta wash today. Exciting." The dryness of his tone failed to impress. Not so much as a dirty look for his trouble. Something was definitely up.

Another interminable minute passed, in which Puck's thoughts drifted aimlessly and then homed in on their journey ahead, a much,  _much_  more interesting topic in his opinion. "We'll be there soon," he thought aloud.

"Mmhm."

Puck sighed. Sometimes this having friends business was a lotta hassle. "I hear the island is really a giant dragon turtle, napping on the ocean floor," he tried.

Kurt's hands moved from his sides to grip the rail, his attention remaining fixed.

"They say one day it'll rear up its head, belch fire across its back and have the inhabitants for a crunchy snack."

"Yeah."

Snorting quietly, Puck followed the captain's line of sight. Tibby and Dom and Cap'n's cabin boy were stripping down to their trousers. Alongside them were two other prisoners, also shucking clothes, until they were covered only by saggy, worn, knee-length drawers. Puck had never seen much point in underpants himself. Not good for much. Just another layer to have to dig through when his balls itched. Probably invented by women. They had no appreciation for a good scratch. Speaking of which... Ahh, better.

Thankfully, not everyone shared his disdain for underpants, because one glimpse of those hairy-assed prisoners bent over a washtub, scrubbing away, would put him right off his lunch.

"Tibby looks cheerful," he ventured after the boredom grew too thick, approximately four seconds later. This seemed as good a time as any to test out a certain theory of Cook's. "Could be he's looking forward to seeing the missus," Puck mused. "Or could be he plans to shackle your mop-headed one to the mainmast and stuff him full o' pirate treasure."

"Mmhm. What?" Kurt's head swung sharply toward him and back, seeking out the world's most jovial pirate. So, he was paying  _some_  attention. Flushed cheeks and narrowed eyes turned slowly back on Puck.

"Yes?" His benevolent smile would have made a deaf and blind monk proud, could he have but seen or heard tale of it.

"You. I. Tibby wouldn't," Kurt sputtered with conviction, if not articulation.

Puck pondered this, observing the men with slightly more interest than previously and noticing someone else balefully watching the proceedings. "Nah, he probably wouldn't. Stick seems more the type."

As soon as the words sank in, the captain's gaze was racing across the deck again until his target was located. Knuckles whitening on the rail, Puck's buddy, Kurt, morphed into Captain Black before his very eyes. "It would be the last thing he did."

The tone was convincing. Puck had to give him credit, because it was a mystery to him how someone so gentle could project such menace. His voice would go quiet and dark, with a razor's edge, like the promise of a kind and personable serial killer right after you learned he was a hundred percent insane. If he didn't know better, Puck might have believed the threat. He did know better, though, and personally thought Kurt was about as dangerous as a kitten with a ball of yarn. Not many knew it, of course. In fact, he didn't think Kurt knew it. But, the Blackbird had been Puck's home for years and he had adapted to the captain's oddball way of thinking – eventually – even if he couldn't wrap his own brain around it.

Being a good guy wasn't so terrible as all that, Puck had decided long ago, so long as he and the others still had their reputation as ruthless cutthroats. That was important.

Another of Cook's theories was that the captain's biggest problem was being unwilling to lose his temper – also that he was too skinny, which Puck ignored. Years of refusing to take his anger out on anyone had caused it to build and fester until he was ready to explode. So said Cookie, who fancied herself an expert on all things Kurt. Oh, who was he kidding? She fancied herself an expert on all things, full stop.

As for himself, Puck thought Kurt needed to bend somebody over and have at 'em. Or bend himself over and whatnot. Whatever worked for him. (Puck honestly didn't want to know.) A vigorous plowing never failed to relieve tension.  _Which is why I'm always so relaxed,_  he smirked.

While Puck had moved on to other, less agitating thoughts, Kurt, unplowed and tense, still had his mind on the belligerent redhead. "I want him off this ship."

There was that tone again, crazy killer, normally reserved for strangers and enemies. Worse yet, Puck sensed the beginnings of a world-class snit. Shaking his head, he applied himself to the problem. Otherwise, they could all look forward to several days of a stompy-footed captain and a cook hell-bent on making everyone else suffer with him.

Soon he was grinning at nothing, so brilliant he impressed himself. "Did you know, Captain, that in some countries, the Navies beef up their ranks by pressing men into service?"

Kurt twitched with irritation and shot Puck an incredulous glare.

"It's true," Puck confirmed with a lazy nod, as if Kurt had asked, or cared at all. "They sign men up and force them to work, sometimes for years, before letting them go again," he elaborated. "Never their own countrymen, though. That's what's strange. They only enlist outsiders against their will." He nodded at the comprehension creeping into Kurt's newly attentive face. "I've heard tales of men being snatched right off the docks. Most times they don't even speak the language, but that doesn't stop the foreigners from makin' 'em work."

"No?" There was an unmistakable trace of hopefulness.

"Nope. We'd best keep a sharp lookout at some of those port calls we've got coming up. It'd be a damned shame if something like that happened to one of our own men. We'd probably never get him back."

Kurt's head circled around in a bemused yes-no motion. "Shame. Yes." He inhaled deeply of the salty air. "What would I do without you, Puck?"

Puck's snort was eloquent. "Sail around in circles and let Cook walk all over you."

"Well. At least we aren't sailing around in circles." Kurt looked slightly relieved as they went back to people watching, until the prisoner-cum-cabin boy spotted them and offered a friendly wave, grinning like a loon.

"He'd better put those teeth away before he signals our location to every ship in a hundred mile radius," Puck sniggered, then laughed aloud when Kurt's eyes slowly rolled upward, expressing his disbelief to the heavens that this was his life.

* * *

Puck had a great laugh; deep and resonating and rarely heard. Not the out-loud, full-bellied laughs, not from him. Kurt's instinctive, quelling remark was withheld in honor of the occasion. Also because, no matter how well his threats might work against men who believed Kurt was about to introduce them to their own entrails, they were less than effective against his friends. Such was the price one paid for letting people get close. Why, Kurt might have joined in his friend's mirth if he weren't so busy being eaten away by anxious, simmering, mind-scrambling questions.

Blaine's behavior had gone from atypical to unsettling to bizarre in the space of a day, it seemed, making Kurt feel highly confused and jumpy. Feelings he hated. People should behave as expected, damn it. As Kurt himself did. A pirate's duty was to capture ships, steal treasure, mistreat prisoners and, uhh, kick puppies – he blanched – all that dastardly, piratey stuff. A prisoner's duty, on the other hand, was to be miserable and fear for his life. Or try to escape. Or both. That was how this captor/captive business worked.

It was  _not_  Blaine's duty to smile all the time. Or voluntarily wash Kurt's hair, with thoroughness and care and amusing anecdotes. It was not his duty to pull an armful of shirts from the wardrobe to press against Kurt's body, tilting his head this way and that, murmuring about colors and Kurt's complexion, and being unnecessarily wonderful while Kurt stood like a giant china doll, complete with rosy cheeks and unbending limbs. It certainly could not be right for him to help Kurt dress when his numb hands couldn't quite manage it alone, or to stroke light fingertips caressingly down Kurt's back in search of creases to smooth. It was all wrong.  _Wrong!_

And Kurt, confounded beyond his capacity to respond, had hardly managed to form two consecutive, coherent sentences all morning. He didn't know whether to laugh hysterically about Blaine having no notion of his effect on Kurt, or beat the man unconscious if he did know and was being deliberately cruel. Both held appeal.

Instead, he had done nothing. There was the crux of the matter. He hadn't stood up for himself. He'd worked hard to get where he was, plotted his life out on a map made of his own choices, regardless of the myriad obstacles, not the least of which was the law. He should be concentrating on their current mission and researching their next. Blaine should be nothing more to him than good – all right, excellent – nighttime stroking material. The man had no right to consume so much of Kurt's waking hours, no right to come along and scatter the pieces of his carefully laid plans, not to mention his brain, all to hell with the swipe of one nimble-fingered, uncalloused hand.

"Wanna talk about what's bothering you?" Puck leaned his elbows on the rail, watching the scene below. Kurt envied him the casual pose, feeling too agitated to slouch, let alone bend in half. Puck's head swiveled slightly and a brow was raised when there was no response. He sighed at the sight of Kurt's poker-stiff frame and tight lips that were by no means trembling.

Straightening, Puck offered him a sympathetic pat on the back that didn't make Kurt uncomfortable at all. His problem with being touched all the time must be entirely Blaine's fault, and he should keep his grabby hands to himself. But Puck, having very little idea of Kurt's inner turmoil or proximity to frustrated tears, just looked upward and released a shrill whistle, waving when a face popped over the side of the crow's nest. "Micky!" he shouted. "Exercise!"

Mick whooped and yelled in turn over the other side, calling for a replacement lookout. "Move your ass, Pepe!" he urged soon after, when the sailor didn't climb fast enough to suit. "I could have been up and down the mast twice by now!" Pepe chose his handholds with yet more care.

The focus Kurt had been lacking all morning began to coalesce at once, pulling itself together from amongst the shattered remnants of his formerly useful mind and shaping into the kind of concentration that comes of long practice. His tightly locked muscles began to loosen and move, stretching and shaking off some of their tension in preparation for one of his favorite pastimes. "I could kiss you," he said with feeling.

Puck pulled a face. "Can't you just punch me or something?"

Kurt smiled – his first of the day – and took a sharp swing.

'Ow,' Puck mouthed, pressing fingers into his upper arm. "Thanks for that," he dryly intoned.

"Any time."

A whirlwind, by name of Mick, bounded up the stairs to land silently and with a wide grin next to them. "Swords?" he got straight to the point. One might think he was eager, and one would be correct.

To one side of the ship's wheel was a chest that Puck unlocked, stepping aside so Mick could choose his weapon. Blaine was glancing up at them curiously, Kurt unwillingly noticed, before a tap at his shoulder thankfully prevented him from falling back into the trap of staring uselessly at the root of his troubles.

"Captain." Davidson had appeared at his side. Unlike most of the crew, armed only with pistols, Davidson wore his sword at all times. He was always ready to hand it over to Kurt, though. Kurt accepted it now with a quick thanks and tested the familiar weight in his hands, tossing the hilt from palm to palm and rolling his shoulders. Davidson also held out a pair of leather gloves, which Kurt put on, flexing his hands and rechecking his grip on the sword.

"Ready, Captain?" Mick tossed aside his shirt to reveal an enviable abdomen and pulled on gloves of his own, his easy smile still in full bloom. "Main deck?"

"We'll get there," Kurt replied and gave his friend and opponent a respectful bow, as he'd been taught.

After Mick did the same, they fell into a circling gait, slapping blades together with an introductory clang and sizing each other up. Puck and Davidson stood back to observe from a safer distance.

It didn't take long for Mick to make the first move. He lunged, springing forward from his left foot with the grace of a gazelle. A flick and twist deflected the thrust, winding the swords harmlessly around one another. Kurt smiled and followed through with a standard slice and backswipe that Mick easily dodged, arms thrown wide and concave body hopping backward so the honed edge cut only air where his trim belly had been.

"Ha-ha!" Mick's delighted laugh cleared the last of the cobwebs from Kurt's head, and then they were on, slashing and parrying, the sound of steel meeting steel ringing loudly across the deck. Crewmen stopped to watch, cheer, and place bets. The two fighters were evenly matched, with Mick touted as the more creative and agile swordsman, and Kurt the more precise and controlled. Being as proficient and accomplished as they were, they were favored dueling partners. To one it was all good fun. To the other it was an opportunity to prove to himself that he was good enough.

* * *

"Fhsss," Kurt sucked a sharp breath through his teeth.

"Sorry," said Doc. "There's no help for it." He finished dousing Kurt's arm with whiskey and handed him the bottle. "Drink," he ordered and went to fetch his suture kit. "I take it you didn't bother with practice swords. Again."

Kurt took a few swallows and lowered the bottle to rest on his thigh. "Where's the challenge in that?"

"The challenge is in continued survival," the disapproving surgeon wryly suggested. "It's dying that's easy."

A quiet knock accompanied the opening of the door, and Mick peeked around with his good eye. Kurt's mouth quirked and he flexed bruised knuckles. "All right, Mick?" he asked, beckoning the sailor in. His half-grin dropped when the door opened fully to admit not only his sailing master, but his cabin boy too, whose wide, worried eyes alighted on him instantly and dropped straight to his bared arm. Kurt's attention was placed firmly back on his dueling partner and the thin bandage wrapped diagonally around his head, holding a compress to his face. "Cook's already seen to you, then. How's the eye?"

"Fine. Cheekbone's tender." Mick touched his fingertips to the compress and winced. "It's my ears that are ringing after Cook finished with me." He grinned. "You'll be next," he warned toothily and stepped farther into the room. "She sent some of her willow bark ointment for you, along with choice words that I will let her deliver herself." He looked over his shoulder, where a brief glance showed Blaine to be carrying a tray. "Oh, and tea," Mick added.

"Way ahead of her." One mocking bottle salute later, another hefty portion of amber liquid was burning its way into Kurt's gut. He needed it, and not just because the surgeon was pinching his wound together, preparing to stitch him up.

"Captain." All heads turned at the hoarse sound. Blaine flushed, looking away from Kurt's injury for the first time since he'd entered. He set down the tray, and his voice had returned when he spoke again. "Is there anything I can do for you, Captain?"

"Just stand over there," Doc directed with a jerk of his chin, and Blaine hastened to comply, moving close to the uninjured side, followed by Kurt's suspicious gaze until the first stitch had him closing his eyes and baring clenched teeth.

Inhaling and exhaling slowly through his nose, he drank deeply again to deaden the pain and focused on the concerned face hovering near his own, his mind already becoming too muddled to dwell much on the 'concerned' part. He'd never been quite this close to the man before, unless one counted the previous evening's bath that he was going to pretend hadn't happened.

The normally smooth forehead was currently knitted with anxiety, and hazel eyes watched the doctor's every movement with unnerving intensity. Up close, they were even more startling; sworls of dark and vivid colors, sprinkled with gold flecks and ringed by heavy lashes as black as the expressive eyebrows that offset them. Too expressive, really. Kurt didn't think brows should say so much.

He'd spent years learning to structure his own features into an expression of nothingness. It hadn't been easy, as Kurt was very expressive by nature. It was a matter of control, of suppressing instincts. People who gave away too much through their emotions made themselves vulnerable. Not him. He decided when and to whom his feelings were allowed to show; a rule Blaine obviously didn't live by. The bottle was upended again. He should probably stop thinking of his prisoner by his given name, Kurt thought woozily, before it got him into trouble.

"You're still wearing my clothes," he remarked when his head was pleasantly buzzing and his gaze had dropped from the visibly thrumming pulse of a tanned throat, to the expensive fabric stretched across a taut chest that Kurt could picture with little difficulty, having been exposed to it more than once.

Anderson's unfairly handsome face tilted down from where he stood next to Kurt, his troubled look beginning to fade. "Yes, Captain," he answered gently. "I'm afraid I didn't finish my share of the wash." The slash of brows twitched as if to say Kurt should forgive him, since it was his fault Anderson had been distracted. Kurt's face sent a rare message back, telling them to sit down and shut up and let the man speak for himself, which he did, blinking owlishly and taking a faltering step back. "I'm sorry. I'll go clean these for you right now," is what he went with. Kurt harrumphed a very Cook-like sound.

"Keep them," he grumbled. They fit the man too well. Kurt knew he'd never be able to wear those pieces again without imagining them clinging to the curves and angles of another's body.

"But, Captain–" he began to protest.

"Don't argue!" Kurt thumped him soundly on the chest with a bottle-toting fist, then remembered he was supposed to be drinking. "Doctor's orders," he declared and tossed back another shot.

"Hold him steady," came a low voice from his other side, where a certain amount of agony told him Doc was still working. That dagger he called a needle had been stabbed through Kurt's arm again and again until the pain was too constant to tell what was happening anymore. He surely must have a hundred stitches by now, and the medicinal beverage was running low.

Two hands gripped his forearm, holding the injured limb in place while Doc worked on the slash across his bicep, and a pair of strong arms encircled him, one hand sliding across his stomach to curve around his rib cage and another lying above his shoulder blades. Kurt could feel the slow back and forth of a thumb against his nape. How many hands did his prisoner have, anyhow? Not important. What mattered was that it was harder, but not impossible, to drink with his good arm pressed so tightly against a firm torso. "Hurts," he complained and let his forehead drop to rest there, as well. There was plenty of room. Anderson's chest was broad enough, he knew. Broad and sculpted and touchable and kind of perfect. "Stop that," he muttered to himself.

"Almost done," said Doc, and stabbed him again.

Kurt blew a resigned breath, wishing he'd been able to hold onto his concentration earlier. He'd been doing fine, trading near miss after near miss with Mick, like always, chasing and being chased all over the deck, jumping high and rolling low to avoid the sharp blade, and generally having a great time until... "You were watching us," he remembered, then chuckled into Anderson's breastbone. "You shouldn't be scared. No one was gonna get hurt." Someone snorted. "Did you see Mick try to swipe my legs out from under me? Sneaky bastard." Someone else laughed. "Hafta get him to teach me that move," Kurt said, turning his head to the side to rest more comfortably on his pectoral cushion. The thumb at his nape was joined by a number of other digits and they all went exploring into his hair. Kurt's eyelids drooped. "I decked him for it. Did you see?"

"I saw. You were amazing." The arm around him gave a gentle squeeze.

Kurt basked in the compliment. He was an amazing pirate. "I don't wanna kick puppies, though." His cushion shook.

"Um. I think it would be acceptable if you didn't kick any puppies."

That was good news. Kurt let his head tilt up on its pillow until he could see a fuzzy, black beard and full, shapely lips. He studied them, guessing at their texture – soft – and taste – yummy – and watching the way they curved, always upward. As lips went, they were pretty magnificent. "Like you," he admitted. The curve deepened.

Facing forward again, Kurt stared blearily at a painting on the wall. A little boat, adrift on a vast ocean, was bobbing up and down to the soothing rhythm of the heartbeat under his ear. "You'd like Mick. He smiles a lot, too."

"I do like Mick. I like all your friends."

Kurt could feel vibrations rumble through his cushion boy when he spoke. It was nice. He could also feel the tangling of a beard with his hair when Blaine or Anderson or whoever bent his head down to rest his cheek. He must be tired, too.

"He's my fam'ly," Kurt corrected, letting his voice go quiet in case Blanderson was sleeping. "Him an' Abe an' Finley an' Puck an' Cook an' Doc an' Trout an' Billy an' Alex 'n everyone. Even Mr. Scowlypants. They're all my flam'ly. 'Specially Finn. He's my–"

"Okay, all done patching you back up," Doc rudely cut him off. Kurt carefully rearranged his features into a frowny face and hoped Doc could see it from the side, because he couldn't be bothered to turn his head right now. There were some very clever fingers still at work in his hair.

"Feels like m'arm fell off and you sewed someone else's in its place," Kurt grouched and snuggled deeper into his cozy resting spot. Something was prickling at his senses – a scent that made him think of dampness and heat. It was spicy and manly and he thought he caught a whiff of hibiscus. Maybe it was him that smelled so good.

"Anderson," Doc said, ignoring Kurt's (slurred ramblings) constructive criticisms. "I need you to pay attention while I dress the wound, please. The bandage should be changed twice a day for the first week."

"Yes, sir," his cabin pillow quickly agreed.  _So polite_ , thought Kurt.  _Perfect gentleman._

"Good manners are v'ry import'nt," he mumbled sleepily and shifted again, making himself more comfortable in his sweet-smelling bed.

* * *

"Captain."

The warm breath in his ear sent shivers rippling down Kurt's spine. He moaned softly, curling deeper into his lover's arms and smiling when the hair was pushed tenderly back from his face. Petal soft lips touched his forehead and glided downward like the barest brush of silk across his skin.

"Captain."

It was breathed against his lips this time and they parted on a soft gasp, anticipating the sweet kiss. Aching for it.

"Yes," he sighed back, lifting his face, seeking that tantalizing mouth with his own.

"Captain!"

Kurt's lover vanished into a cloud of vapor at the sound of Cook's jarring screech, and he was ripped brutally from the most wonderful dream he'd had since, maybe ever. "Nooo," he whined in frustration. Once he could bring himself to open his eyes, he was going to give that woman the mother of all death glares.  _Ready? Go!_  His head lifted on a wobbly neck and sleep-fogged eyes cracked open, filled with all the promises of torture and imminent demise he could muster.

This was met with an amused giggle. His head dropped heavily back to his pillow; a plush, cotton-stuffed pillow, he noted with something like disappointment. "I need new friends."

"You seem to have made one new friend at least," she evilly implied all sorts of things that weren't remotely true.

"Did you wake me up merely to share your fanciful imaginings?" he addressed the ceiling and realized he was still in the infirmary. Blurry, whiskey-related recollections peppered with alarming blank spots made his face heat with embarrassment.

"I came to check on you, because that is what close, personal friends do," she huffed. "What they do not do is keep secrets from each other." Her pinched mouth didn't have the desired effect of making him feel guilty. It did, however, make her look like her mother. And he'd tell her so, when they were on land and he had someplace to run.

"If there's something you need to get off your chest, go ahead. I'll be right over here, trying to care."

"Get off my–!" her mouth snapped shut. "I'm not the one keeping secrets around here." Lauren came very near dropping what, for her, passed for evasiveness, to accuse him of something outright.

"I don't know what you're talking about." He sat up slowly, pressing a palm to his temple, where he felt a headache coming on.

She snorted in disbelief, nevertheless pouring him a fresh, hot cup of tea, which she then thrust directly under his nose. "Drink."

"That's what Doc said, and look what happened," he muttered, gratefully gulping his tea in the hope of drowning whoever was drumming on the insides of his eyeballs.

"What  _did_  happen?" she queried with exaggerated slyness. Fake subtlety was one of her favorite forms of sarcasm, because it was a subtle form of sarcasm. Lauren enjoyed irony.

 _What happened?_  Hazy feelings of pain and comfort were still with him in equal parts. Memories of gentle hands and a sweet mouth hovered just out of reach, fading as fast as his dream lover had done. On the bright side, his sad, disappointed sigh put an end to Lauren's dogged questioning. She peeled his fingers from the empty cup and wrapped his neck in a tight, careful hug, planting his face mid-bosom.

He accepted the embrace, as he did most of her mothering. Fighting it had never done him much good. It was only when oxygen deprivation began to set in that he commented in a muffled voice, "These are utterly wasted on me."

"Oh, you!" With a firm, loving slap to the back of his head, she let him go.

"Ow. Injured man here."

"Injured. Hmph. Don't think for a second that I've forgotten how you got  _injured_. Get your bony backside to the galley, or I'll show you injured. Supper's already half over."

"The galley?" He got to his feet, with some minor teetering and swaying. His arm was throbbing as if someone had sliced it open and stitched it back together again... Right.

"Yes, the galley. What of it?" She snatched up her tray and cast him a squinty glare while he gingerly inserted his bandaged arm back into the torn sleeve dangling loosely at his side.

" _You_  want me to eat in the galley," he clarified in small, slow words. "With the crew?" He hadn't sneaked behind her back to dine with the men since the whole cabin boy debacle had begun, which was strange now that he thought about it.

"Yes, with the crew!" she snapped. "They'll want to see for themselves that you're all right, won't they, Mr. Injured Man? Now move your ass. Some of us have work to do. We can't all spend our days playing with our little friends and lazing about, napping, can we? No." The lecture began in earnest. "How would you like it if  _I_  went on a drinking binge instead of working my poor, tired fingers to the bone?" she harped, barely pausing her tirade for breath as they made their way through the ship. Kurt followed behind, where she couldn't see his mouth jabbering in silent mimicry. He hoped.

Outside the galley, she came to an abrupt halt and spun about to see if her vehement and eloquent speech had roused sufficient remorse yet. If not, she'd be happy to continue.

Kurt's expression quickly transformed into a meek plea. "I love you," he cooed in blatant and irresistible manipulation.

Tightly puckered lips held back a laugh – and didn't make her look so much like her mother – but the twinkling eyes were a dead giveaway. He grinned in triumph. "Oh, shut up." She cuffed him again, just because, and opened the door.

* * *

Blaine must have been watching for them. How else could he have managed to place a hot meal in front of Kurt before he'd finished sitting down? Kurt's mask dropped automatically into place. There was no outward sign that his pulse had quickened or that a phantom tingling had settled inexplicably along the base of his skull. An offhand, "Thank you," was his only acknowledgment of the quietly attentive man.

The galley was abuzz with the noise of rowdy, lighthearted men. They commiserated good-naturedly on Kurt's loss, particularly those who'd wagered he would draw first blood, and told him he'd win the next one for sure. One sailor went so far as to clap a friendly hand to Kurt's back. That one soon found himself hauled out of his seat by the ear, which Cook continued to pinch in a tight grasp while she shouted into it a reminder of the captain's injured state, and offered to give the sailor some stitches of his very own to help him remember.

A chorus of laughter followed and Kurt chuckled along with everyone else. Mostly, he found it amusing that she had no compunction about giving him the flat of her own hand, albeit nowhere near his wound.

As always, his smile disappeared when he caught Blaine watching him, but if breathing became slightly difficult, no one was the wiser. It was his burden alone to deal with, and he would. There was only one sensible course of action. Ignore the problem until it went away.

How hard could it be? They'd be halfway to their destination after one quick stop. Then the prisoners would be released. Blaine would be gone. Kurt's life would return to normal: work all day, fail to sleep at night. He wouldn't miss the sound of Blaine's voice, his cute stories, or his openness and joy in the simplest things. He didn't need anyone else to take care of him or worry about him or talk to him when he was lonely.

Because he wasn't lonely. He had friends. Family. He had Lauren and Finn. He had his work to fulfill him, shipmates to protect and men to hunt down. Everything he'd ever wanted. Yes. Blaine would leave and Kurt would go on with his life and nothing would change.

Except. Maybe sometimes he'd have dreams in place of nightmares. And occasionally he might catch a whiff of something in the air that would stir up memories and feelings. If it made his chest ache a little, there must be a remedy for that. Doc would know what to do, or Cook would brew her special tea for aches and pains. And she'd hug him too, if he needed, and let him cry on her shoulder when the nightmares were too real. That was enough.

"Do you need anything else, Captain? More tea?"

The deep, honey-sweet voice next to his ear was immediately preceded by a mouth-watering scent that had nothing to do with Cook's supper. It filled Kurt's lungs. "No." He didn't grasp at the man's messy, black hair to pull him close and bury his face in fragrant skin, or snap at him to get away, or scream at the injustice of it all and yell out his fervent wish that he'd never laid eyes on Blaine Anderson.

He didn't do any of those things. A plain and unequivocal 'no' was a sufficient response for a cabin boy,  _and that is all he is_ , Kurt gave himself a vicious reminder. So, having received the answer to his question, Blaine would now step aside until he was needed again. Kurt waited tensely for that to happen, all the benefits of his relaxing morning exercise flown out the window.

"Okay, sir, if you're sure. Your arm isn't hurting too much? Doc left some bandages in your room and showed me what to do. He said it would be all right to put a little of Cook's tincture on the wound, but I'm to tell him immediately if it starts to look worse or if you become feverish, because it could be infected."

A sudden, mortifying and somewhat fuzzy memory of being held snugly in Blaine's arms, leaning trustingly into his body and enjoying the sound of his heartbeat had Kurt's hands curling into white-knuckled fists on the table.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Captain." A gentle hand clasped his good shoulder. "I shouldn't talk about such things at the table. My mother would have my hide. Good manners and all. Right, Captain?" The hand that should have already been removed gripped a little bit tighter. "Please do eat something, though. You had quite a lot to drink earlier and I'm afraid you might be ill otherwise." His words cut through the white noise in Kurt's head. "I'll go heat the water for your bath while you finish." He leaned in closer, voice dropping to a whisper and marking a direct line from Kurt's ear to his groin. "Cook's watching, Captain. Please try."

Finally. Finally! Blaine moved away, heading for the stove and the barrels of water Cook kept on hand. Kurt's eyes stung. His lungs were burning. Blinking and breathing had been forgotten throughout the ordeal. He'd probably made a spectacle of himself.

No one was staring, though, or whispering behind their hands or laughing aloud at their captain's ridiculous crush.  _No, no, it's impossible. Absurd. I canNOT have a crush. It's purely physical. Only physical. Please?_ Cook was chatting with Puck. She gave him a friendly smile when he caught her eye. No one knew, and no one would find out. If his thoughts remained unreadable, he'd be safe.

Lively conversation continued in the galley, unaffected by the tilting of the Earth's axis. A discreet gulp or three of his tea helped restore some of the moisture to his mouth and a small bite of stew created the illusion that all was normal. Nothing unusual going on here at all. Another bite to reinforce the image. It didn't matter that the food had no taste. The men couldn't see it stick in his throat like desert sand. He swallowed. Everything was fine.

* * *

"All right, you big, lumbering oafs. Everyone who doesn't want to scrub these tables and sweep up the crumbs you mannerless louts manage to throw into every nook and cranny, get your lazy asses out of my kitchen. Now!" Cook announced the end of the meal, requesting that the crew kindly depart so cleanup could commence.

Kurt was feeling almost human again and, while he couldn't say what he'd eaten, he'd managed to choke down enough to keep Cook off his back.

"How're you doing, Captain?" She joined him at the newly deserted table and touched the back of her hand to his forehead. "Another cup of willow bark tea for the pain?"

"No, thank you, Cook. I'm fine. Supper was delicious, as always. I see you still have the crew wrapped around your charming finger," he skillfully maneuvered the conversation away from himself.

Cook preened. "Some people are born with the gift of persuasion."

"Yes, and some queens are born to trample peasants under their feet."

"Flatterer."

"Captain?"

Kurt stiffened. "Yes? he replied coldly, realizing too late that his behavior might raise questions he'd rather not answer. Cook could be relentless in ferreting out the truth. He immediately switched to a neutral expression "What is it, Anderson?" he added with strained politeness.

"Uh," Blaine stammered, apparently startled by the unwelcoming response. "I'm sorry to interrupt, sir. I wanted to tell you that your water is ready," he said, his tone hesitant.

"Thank you." Kurt bit out through a tiny and patently false smile. Cook's raised brow and pursed mouth promised an interrogation later. But how could he explain to her what was baffling to himself? As little as one day ago, he might have been able to own up to lusting after his cabin boy, in secret, of course. He had no illusions or expectations.

Today, the lack of expectations was eating at him. Hurting.

If only the man weren't so damned likable! He was too kindhearted, too interesting and funny. Too sweet. He'd never once looked at Kurt with the hatred he deserved, and his touchy-feely friendliness caused yearnings that made the squeezing sensations in Kurt's chest unbearable. No way could he confess any of that, not even to his best friend. Especially to her, because she would try to do something about it. That way lay disaster, humiliation and heartache. Better to crush his feelings down into the dust himself rather than have it done for him.

"Are you okay?" murmured Cook, who'd been watching him with growing concern. "Want me to send them away so we can talk?" Her head motioned toward the others, busy washing up across the room.

Kurt was horrified to feel the burn of tears stinging his eyes and slammed down the shutters that had protected him for so long.

 _'What are you hiding from?'_  His father's words from years past came unbidden to Kurt's mind. He, too, had looked at Kurt with love and worry, much as Cook was doing now.  _'Be proud of who you are, son; as proud as I am of you.'_

His father hadn't understood. Hiding his emotions was purely strategy. All part of Kurt's master plan. It had nothing to do with not liking himself. Not that he disliked himself. No more than anyone else, at least. Probably. But that was irrelevant, because it wasn't the reason behind his behavior. Therefore, he'd had no reason to alter his plans. And now, here he was, captain of his own ship, respected by his crew, and dreaded by everyone else. Exactly where he wanted to be.

Exactly.

"Alex, give him a hand with those buckets," called Cook, waving fingers in Blaine's direction.

The young man was only too happy to relinquish his kitchen duties for a bit. "Yes, ma'am."

"Wait. I think I'll skip the bath tonight," Kurt denied, to the astonishment of absolutely everyone.

Cook, as usual, was the first to recover. "Nonsense!" she cried and gave her assistant a withering look that warned of dire consequences should he, Blaine, and the hot water not be gone from her sight within the next ten seconds.

"C'mon, Blaine." Alex grabbed a couple of pails and tore out of there before he could get tangled any tighter in the middle of this fight. Blaine followed with a perplexed glance at the two friends, or combatants, as the case may be.

The moment they were gone, Kurt rounded on her with such genuine anger that she was stunned. Since when did he object to a little overbearing solicitude? It was practically her job description. "What?" she challenged.

"Has it ever occurred to you to let me make a decision regarding my own life?"

"You mean like this morning, when you  _decided_  to let Micky whack a chunk out of your arm?"

Kurt gnashed his teeth. "I  _mean_  that I will be the judge of whether or not I want a bath. Whether or not I am hungry. And whether or not I need a damn cabin boy!" he yelled.

Billy hunched over the washtub, scrubbing his heart out and willing himself deaf as an old wooden post.

"You do need a damn cabin boy, because you're the damn captain. The wind would have picked you up and thrown you overboard a long time ago if I didn't force you to eat. And you smell like a cheap saloon!"

The last brought him up short. Frowning down at his blood-stained shirt, the sleeve torn and gaping, he cringed with shame. He was stupidly embarrassed that Blaine had seen him – and smelled him – like this. And he was ashamed that he'd been reduced to yelling at his best friend.

"I..." He hardly knew where to begin. "I was upset and I took it out on you. I'm sorry."

She sniffed, crossing her arms and tossing her hair, ineffectually, as it was bound tight to her head, but her point was made. "And?" she said to the wall.

"And you're a wonderful human being, a paragon of womanhood, and the finest chef on the seven seas."

"Obviously. What else?"

"Neither this ship, nor I, would be anything without you. You are the sea and the air. Sailors will be singing for centuries to come in honor of you. Your contributions to the Blackbird cannot be calculated. They are infinite. Your wisdom is as boundless as the sky. Your generosity as deep as the ocean. You are as vital as the day and night. As priceless as the stars that guide us. You–"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm the sun and the moon and all that horse manure. You're lucky I love you, or I'd save the wind the trouble and toss you over myself."

"I love you, too." He kissed her cheek and heaved a sigh. "I should probably go bathe."

"Those of us with a sense of smell would appreciate it. You're burning the hairs from my nostrils."

"I'm very sorry," he said again. "You too, Billy," Kurt raised his voice above the din of pot scrubbing. "I apologize for subjecting you to that."

"Mood swings," said Cook. "All us girls have 'em," she sniggered quietly.

"Oh!" Kurt emitted a high-pitched yelp. "You take that back, you hussy!"

Cook high-tailed it toward the exit, laughing heartily, then ducked back in through the door as soon as he dove after her, slamming it in his face. "Go! Wash!" she yelled through the wood.

"But–"

"Now!"

"Yes, Mother," he grumbled, stomping away.


	12. Nothing is Impossible

Dragging feet made a lot of noise.

Dejection, Kurt philosophized, was the sound of boots, scraping along the floor, then lifting slightly, only to slap boorishly down again with every reluctant step. Heel, toe, scrape. Heel, toe, scrape. Or if he slowed it down: Heel. Toe. Scrrrrape. Then on the steps it was a shorter scrape and louder slap.

Halfway down the stairs, Kurt stopped to press his overheated forehead to the cool wooden panels of the wall and meditate on how truly pathetic he had become; a self-image that was not improved by his current position.

He had to set aside the uncomfortable feeling that he held approximately the same power over his own fate as he did over the waves that carried them along, and remember something a very wise man had once told him. 'Son,' his father had said, 'when life deals you a poor hand, there's only one thing to do. Bluff. Sooner or later, some better cards will come along.' With that advice in mind, Kurt shed any lingering signs of fear, ready to show the world – his little piece of it – that life was all fair winds and clear skies. In other words, he was prepared to lie his ass off.

He walked into his room with sure, confident strides. "Thank you, Alex. You may go." There. Proof that he wasn't concerned in the least about being alone with Anderson, wobbly knees notwithstanding.

His bathtub sat waiting. Nothing new there. No need for dismay. On any other day, he'd be only too eager to wash off the day's grime, and today's was grimier than most. So, he put away his gun with sedate, measured movements, and sat to pull off his boots, only to spoil his supremely dignified performance by hissing when pain lanced through his arm.

Anderson was there the next second, kneeling to pull off the boots without a word.

"Thank you." Kurt affected an air of boredom, avoiding direct eye contact when bright, gorgeous orbs peered upward.

"My pleasure, Captain."

Kurt could see no reason for his cabin boy's voice to have that husky quality to it. It would have to be placed into the 'ignore until it goes away' category. He imagined a lot of things would be dealt with similarly over the next few weeks, until they actually went away, which Anderson's removal would accomplish.

Meanwhile, he steeled his nerve and rose to tug open his shirt laces. Silently warning off any assistance, Kurt ignored the disappointed, borderline hurt looks sent his way. It was almost as if Anderson knew something was very wrong, even if he didn't know what. He was far too perceptive.

With the shirt off, Anderson facing politely away, and his arm aching, Kurt finished stripping and settled into the bath, self-consciously tucking his knees to his chest again in order to retain what little modesty he had left, despite his suspicion that he looked like an idiot. He was too busy trying to hold onto his poker face to care about that. What had seemed like a solid plan out in the passageway was beginning to look full of holes from where he now sat.

Bluffing was not so easy with apprehension wrapping itself around him like a thick, suffocating blanket. No one else was there to help keep him occupied. He was sitting stark naked in a bathtub, with Anderson so near that he could probably hear the pounding of Kurt's heart against his ribs, and the humiliating memories of that morning were beginning to strangle him so thoroughly that he thought he might actually die.

Should he apologize for his drunken lapse in sanity? No! The last thing he wanted was to open a discussion about topics he wished to abolish from memory, both his and Anderson's, if only it were possible.

He nearly gasped aloud when warm water ran down the back of his head.  _No, don't touch me,_ he silently pleaded,  _or I'm afraid I won't want you to stop._  He'd opened his mouth to say something, anything, when familiar, blunt nails scraped firmly along his scalp and Kurt's jaw went slack. Without uttering a single protest, Kurt and his resolve melted into sticky goop at the bottom of the tub.

Sometime later, Kurt's hair was clean and his eyes rolled forward again from where they'd lodged in the back of his head. He was bent forward, chest pressed to his thighs, and slick, soapy hands were sweeping their way unbidden down his spine. If it hadn't felt so wonderful, Kurt was sure he'd have put a stop to it immediately. Well, reasonably sure. Then his back was finished and his good arm scrubbed. For some reason, he allowed that too, dropping his forehead to his knees, letting Anderson do what he would, and only biting his tongue against a giggle when ticklish areas on his sides and underarms were cleaned as thoroughly as the rest.

After his rinse, a sudsy washrag was brought into play. Kurt couldn't see it, but he felt the extraordinarily gentle touch of the cloth on his other arm, cleaning slowly around his bandaged wound.

"May I remove this?"

Kurt shivered at the quiet words, spoken so closely that he felt the breath against his ear. One light fingertip was stroking his skin along the top of the bandage. The other hand was accounted for when it came to rest briefly on Kurt's opposite shoulder and began to slide inward, toward his neck. A minute nod from Kurt gave his permission before the roving hand could take further liberties.

The bandage was unwound and peeled away with utmost care. Kurt was frankly impressed by Anderson's lack of squeamishness. He, himself, had yet to look at the injury, and he was in no hurry to. Instead of cabin boy, perhaps the prisoner should have been assigned to doctor's assistant.

"It doesn't look inflamed."

Was that relief in his voice? Kurt would never understand how his captive could be so kindhearted that he wouldn't wish pain on his worst enemy.

"I'll wrap it again when you're finished," murmured Anderson, adjusting his position. "Would you like me to do the front now?" The cloth was dipped into the water and twirled slowly, brushing Kurt's bare hip. It was a sign of his questionable mental state that Kurt considered it. What would Anderson do if Kurt were to lean back, lower his knees and put his body on display?

In Kurt's dreams, bathing would quickly change to caressing. In reality, he knew the response would be disgust, not lust. The kindness he had come to trust in would change to horrible awkwardness. He wouldn't be able to look Anderson in the face again.

Kurt's head shook in a definite, if slightly delayed, negative, and he held his breath for what seemed like a long pause, but was probably his imagination tormenting him, before the cloth was dropped and Anderson backed away.

"All right, sir," he said on a downtrodden sigh. Kurt peeked up from the shadowy safe-haven of his curled up legs. He felt he would sooner understand Anderson's kindheartedness than his unstinting determination to be the perfect cabin boy. Unless he still thought his life depended on it? That didn't seem to be the case. Perhaps, he wanted to make his servant friends back home proud? However strange it was for a man of Blaine's upbringing, that was the only answer Kurt could come up with that didn't reek of his own fevered, wishful thinking.

He shook off the puzzling thoughts and grabbed the cloth, sending another glance over his shoulder to be assured of privacy before he hurriedly finished bathing and snatched up a towel from the floor to cover himself.

"You may bathe, if you wish," Kurt mumbled, turning away to force his still damp body into a dressing gown.

"Oh, um," Anderson faltered. "Thank you, Captain. I'll just have a quick one, then, if you're sure?"

Kurt fumbled the sash into a knot, keeping his back turned. "It's fine." He yanked the towel from his waist to sling around his neck and went to the washstand to give his teeth a long, thorough cleaning. It served to both remove the last remnants of alcohol and keep him occupied while he tried hard not to listen to the telltale sounds of Anderson washing himself, stroking those gentle, soapy hands down his own body, every last inch of it.

"Captain?"

Kurt choked on the water swishing around in his mouth spat it out with an ungainly cough. He spun, holding the ends of his towel to his lower face and froze at the sight of the olive-skinned beauty before him, a damp towel hung low on narrow hips.

"Yes?" he rasped through the cloth that hid his warm cheeks.

One knee peeked boldly through a wide gap in his makeshift wrapping, and a not insignificant portion of thigh was on view, tempting anyone with hands to use them to follow the arrow-like gap in the towel that pointed heavenward and see where it led. Presumably to heaven.

Kurt should have turned away. He wanted to, honestly. Only his feet didn't know how to respond to the disjointed signals coming from the rest of him.

"We should get your arm wrapped, now that you're dry. If you're ready?" Blaine's head tilted and he waited again, innocent and oblivious to the hungry stare that couldn't seem to stop soaking in every detail on display.

"Buh," was Kurt's muffled reply, which, loosely translated, could have meant either, 'Shouldn't you get dressed first,' or 'I want to leave teeth marks on parts of your body you've probably never seen.'

"Great," answered Blaine, whose translation skills must not have been up to snuff, because he neither put on clothes nor ran pell-mell from the room and his would-be violator.

He only smiled and moved toward the table, showing Kurt his profile and the perfect dip of his back into more curvy areas. Then he picked up one of the quite sturdy and consequently heavy chairs, unconsciously making his biceps flex and Kurt's mouth go dry, and set it down facing outward. Kurt watched the proceedings without question. What remained of his brain power had gone toward wadding up his own towel to hold in front of his groin as inconspicuously as possible.

Blaine bent forward and patted the seat, grinning impishly and doing that little head tilt thing again that made Kurt's blood rush south. "Have a seat and I'll get the bandages and tincture. Cook made me promise." His brows apologized. Kurt had forgotten they could do that.

He took small, shuffling steps toward the chair while Blaine fetched a basket Kurt hadn't noticed. He placed it on the floor and looked at Kurt. "Do you need help?" He reached for the lapels of the dressing gown.

"What? No!" Kurt fell into the chair, lapels yanked together in a tight fist.

"Of course, sir." Blaine knelt beside him and slid the basket closer. No comment was made about Kurt's jumpiness. "If you'll just lower your sleeve?"

Sleeve? Oh. Kurt wouldn't let himself blush. He remembered belatedly that he was supposed to look cool and unflustered. As such, he calmly withdrew the injured limb from his robe, looking straight ahead all the while, practicing his bluff.

He flinched at the first soft touch and side-eyed his helper. Blaine held a small porcelain bowl in his palm and dipped his fingertips into the mixture, so Kurt knew what to expect when more of the balm was dabbed around the wound and spread inward with the lightest of touches.

Blaine worked gently and methodically, and his midnight locks shone wetly in the lamplight, very near Kurt's face. Droplets of water dangled teasingly from the tips, waiting to fall onto smooth, bare shoulders. Kurt watched, mesmerized, his poker face utterly forgotten again. Then Kurt's towel was there, still wadded up in his hand, making little swipes against Blaine's damp skin and dripping hair. Kurt masked his embarrassment by pretending not to notice the quick glance and curling lips mere inches away.

"You're wet," he nevertheless justified his actions.

The smile deepened. "I covered myself instead of using the towel to dry. Didn't want to upset you again like last night."

"Not upset," Kurt said under his breath. "Surprised."

"Okay. I didn't want to surprise you again." The way Blaine bit his bottom lip after speaking was highly suspect. It looked a lot like teasing. Kurt rubbed the top of Blaine's hair vigorously and smirked when it stood up like a wild band of warriors, ready to charge.

"Hey," protested the victim of the frizz attack and tried to pat the wildness back under control.

Satisfied, Kurt plucked his towel out of reach and faced forward, chin jutted and ears deaf to grumbles. Especially grumbles that included threats to slick back a glorious head of hair with copious amounts of oil.

"Too bad I don't have any oil," Kurt quickly denied. "Are you finished?" He twitched his arm.

"No, sir," Blaine pouted, giving his hair a last parting smash of hands. But teasing can be a vicious circle. Kurt should have thought of that.

Gentle fingers returned to his skin, one hand cupping the back of his arm while the other swept tiny amounts of Cook's cure-all ointment around his wound. Blaine's touch was soft and delicate and so, so careful not to hurt him.

Kurt bore it well. So well, he hardly noticed when his breathing grew slow and heavy. His perception shrank to the feeling of fingertips gliding softly against his skin and warm breath touching him in gentle puffs that changed to a slow, steady stream of cool air, blowing against his injury.

Heavy-lidded blue eyes slid to the side to watch kissable lips, puckered into an 'o' to send a light stream of air tickling across his arm. Kurt watched, fascinated, listing slowly to the side, edging ever nearer.

"Captain."

The quiet whisper and raised face startled Kurt out of his trance and into a full-blown panic attack that harkened back to his childhood hysterics.

He leaped from his chair and straight into a furious pace without paying heed to any rapid explanations or recriminations or whatever Blaine was babbling. Kurt didn't want to hear it. The pain in his arm when he waved it about didn't matter. The noise from his cabin boy was a blur of words that were easily muffled by the hands Kurt pressed tightly to his ears.

Blaine had to go. Kurt had to stop kidding himself. He had thought he could handle this, but he wasn't strong enough and he hated himself for it. Blaine would be locked back in the... no. No, he'd be reassigned. Yes. He could help the doctor! Just like Kurt had thought earlier. And Kurt would stay as far away from him as possible, and he would stop humiliating himself.

Strong hands snatched his wrists away from his head and he was slammed into the wall with a screech. His shoulders were grabbed and he was given a rough shake.

"Captain! Please listen to me," Blaine cried.

"No!" Kurt shouted hoarsely, scrunching his eyes closed tight and shaking his head wildly from side to side. "Stop it! Get away!" He slapped blindly at the arms holding him in place.

Blaine pushed relentlessly forward, rattling off excuses that Kurt refused to hear until he was flat against the wall and held there by the pressure of a bare chest against his own. His eyes flew open, staring straight into dark, swirling colors, openly pleading depths, and an echo of his own longing.

And just as quickly, it was gone. Blaine was ripped bodily away, Kurt gasped in mute horror, and Davidson's fist crashed into Blaine's jaw with a sickening thud.

Caught completely off-guard, Blaine hit the floor, with Davidson ready to tackle him. But he was fast, Kurt's Blaine. He scrambled backward and got to his feet before another punch could be thrown. His own fists were raised to block the incomings, but he didn't swing back, merely protected himself.

"Stop!" Kurt screamed to no avail.

Davidson's face was mottled and his fists were like hammers, determined to break through Blaine's defenses through sheer persistence, while his opponent was ducking and weaving, fending off the relentless attack as best he could.

Chest, jaw, stomach; Davidson didn't seem to care where his blows might land. Kurt's attempts to restrain him were like trying to hold back the tide.

He gave up trying to grasp the flying fist and dashed for the table and the compartment next to it. Precious moments were wasted in fumbling with the lock, and Kurt swore a blue streak to add to the clamor going on behind him. When he turned, his heart plummeted at the sight of Blaine hitting the floor, Davidson about to straddle him, leading with his fist.

Another punch landed in the second it took Kurt to get back across the room, but when Davidson's arm cocked back again, Kurt was there, jabbing the muzzle of his pistol to the sailor's temple.

Fist raised and ready, and with no further struggle coming from Blaine, which Kurt wouldn't let himself think about, Davidson whipped his head around at the first cold touch of iron. His surprise at facing down the barrel of a gun turned to disbelief and betrayal when he looked up at Kurt.

But the man standing before him was fully in ship's captain mode, his expression as unyielding as the weapon in his hand. Kurt pulled back the hammer and let the sound of the cocking gun speak for him.

Slowly, the fist was lowered and, just as slowly, Davidson got to his feet, breathing heavily from exertion, his hand still curled in on itself.

Blaine wasn't moving.

The gun was now centered on Davidson's wide chest and the betrayal in his face had changed to resentment. "He was attacking you," he snarled.

"Don't," Kurt warned. A glance down at the still form showed Blaine's face and bare torso blotched with red where he'd been hit several times. He was unconscious, yet Davidson would have continued to beat him.

Rage, the kind that Kurt hadn't allowed himself to feel for too many years, burned white hot within him and shone in the depths of the gaze that slowly rose, promising death to Blaine's murderer should he die. The pistol pointed higher, aimed at Davidson's head by a hand that was steady as a rock.

"Get the doctor," Kurt said through a jaw that didn't want to open, wanted only to grind his teeth into dust or rip out the throat of his enemy.

Davidson, stubborn as hell and ruled by emotions that Kurt had never attempted to understand, did not immediately move to follow the order. Face still flushed with anger and sweat, he threw a glare toward Blaine so full of the reckless wish that the man would  _just die_ , that it was all Kurt could do not to squeeze the trigger. But then the sailor faced Kurt again and his shoulders slumped. He began to turn away.

"And Davidson," Kurt stopped him, made him turn back with a spark of hope.

"Run."

* * *

Davidson was no sooner through the door than Kurt dropped to his knees, letting the gun slide away, to cup Blaine's bruised and precious face in his hands.

"Blaine?" he called softly, leaning close and vainly willing those beautiful eyes to open up and look at him.

Dread sat heavy in his gut, but he resolutely bent forward and pressed his ear to Blaine's chest. The strong heartbeat made Kurt's flutter so fast he felt dizzy and had to rest where he lay, expelling short, breathy sobs.

When he could sit up, stifling the occasional mad giggle of relief, Kurt petted Blaine's shoulder, praising him for being okay, and a good boy. Kurt wiped his eyes and picked up the towel that had fallen nearby. He folded it in half and spread it with care to cover Blaine's nudity. Then, unable to help himself, he pressed his ear to the center of Blaine's chest again, which was how Doc found him.

Kurt smiled and sat up, looking at the surgeon from his place on the floor and stroking a hand back and forth on Blaine's arm. "He's okay. He's going to be fine," Kurt assured the doctor, leaving no room for argument.

"All right, Captain." Doc nodded along with Kurt's diagnosis, approaching with careful steps and a wary eye. "Why don't I just have a look, though, as long as I'm here?"

Kurt nodded happily. "He's okay," he promised, before a movement caught his eye. Davidson stood in the open doorway, looking dumbstruck. "He's okay," Kurt told the sailor, who stared at him a moment longer, then vanished down the passageway.

"What happened?" asked Doc, probing carefully along Blaine's ribs.

Kurt blushed.

"It looks like someone beat the hell out of him."

"Yes!" Kurt jumped on the explanation. "Davidson did it."

"Because?"

"Um. We were– and he– it was–"

"Yes?" Doc placed his own ear against Blaine's chest. Kurt's hands clenched together.

"A misunderstanding," he said, finally.

"Misunderstanding," repeated the doctor. "Okay. Well, I don't think his ribs are broken, but send for me immediately if he starts to have trouble taking deep breaths." Doc got to his feet. "Let's get him in the bed."

Kurt stared up at him uncomprehendingly. "What?"

"He's been knocked cold, but he should be fine. I'll help you put him to bed so he can sleep it off. Come on. Grab his legs."

"Legs?"

"Did you take a hit to the head, too?" Doc squatted in front of him and began passing a finger slowly from side to side in front of his face.

"No!" Kurt waved him off. "What was that about bed again?"

"I'll get his shoulders, you take his feet, and between the two of us we can get him off this cold floor. He might wake up with a headache, but–"

" _My_  bed?" Kurt stood, wringing his hands.

Doc still looked like he was missing part of the conversation. "Yes. Bed. To sleep," he spoke slowly.

"But, but, but why my bed?"

"Doesn't he sleep here? I mean, aren't you two-"

"What?!" Kurt's laugh was airless and awkward.

Doc sighed. "Look, Captain, your personal life is none of my business. I'm only the surgeon." Kurt began to nod and open his mouth, "But," Doc went on before he could be interrupted, "he's heavy and it's a long haul to the brig. So, how about we just make a pallet for him on the floor here, okay?"

Kurt deflated and looked sadly down at his battered cabin boy. "No. You're right." He blew out a breath. "This is ridiculous. Let's just move him." He went to stand by Blaine's feet, and a minute later there was a naked man stretched out on his bed and a blushing Kurt was looking at the ceiling while the doctor covered him with blankets. Then he let himself be pushed into a chair again so Doc could wrap the arm that Blaine had never finished.

It was fast and efficient and Kurt never once thought about kissing him. "There you go." Doc put the scattered supplies back into the basket and set it on the table, ready to take his leave. His smile was equal parts comfort and pity. "Kurt, I'm your friend and, for what it's worth, I want you to be happy." Doc placed a hand on his shoulder. "We only get so many chances. Don't let them pass you by."

* * *

The slide of the lock sounded very loud. Loud enough to have Kurt breaking out in a cold sweat before his fingers pulled away from the door. After a short, breathless pause, in which he half expected to hear someone start banging on the other side, or yelling for help from behind him, Kurt wiped damp palms against his bathrobe and went about changing into his night clothes as if nothing whatsoever was out of the ordinary. Only then did he let himself peek over his shoulder at the unmoving lump under his blankets, and gulp.

Once dressed for sleep, he stood fretting for a few seconds and made one or two requisite laps around the room, then bit his lip, blew out the lamps, and climbed into bed. However, if anyone were to ask, he paced for an hour in irritation.

* * *

_Keep calm_ , Kurt told himself,  _and ignore the naked man in your bed_.

 _I can do that. Just ignore him. Is he handsome and charming? Sure. Is he sexy as Eros and twice as fuckable? Obviously. Is he someone I could love and cherish 'til death do us part? Potentially. Is he starkers and spread out like a banquet for my enjoyment right now? So close that if I rolled over I'd be poking him with the tent in my pants? Yes to that, too. But, just because he's_ right there _doesn't mean..._

 _Oh, hell. Yes it does. I want him. He's mine for the time being. What's stopping me? He's helpless. He's in my bed. I'll never have a happily ever after, so I should take what I can get. Tying his wrists to the bedposts would be so easy with him unconscious. Then, when he woke up, I could take my time, touch him everywhere, make his body respond. He could even close his eyes and pretend I'm someone else at first, until I push inside him and teach him what pleasures he's been missing out on. When he opened his eyes, it wouldn't be some woman he saw, it would be me there atop him, inside him, making him want. And I would keep him there, right on the edge. He'd have to stop hiding from his innermost desires and give in to me, move with me, begging for the sweet release I know he needs. We both need. It would be so easy. I would just grab him and–_ "Eeep!" he squeaked in a tiny gasp when his bedmate suddenly rolled his way, flinging out an arm.

Kurt didn't move a muscle, waiting with bated breath while Blaine made himself comfortable along Kurt's side. As usual, the daydream he had used to occupy his mind, to pretend that he was capable of being ruthless and terrible, evaporated into nothingness. Now, there was only the reality of the wonderful man curled against him, and his own paralyzing insecurities.

 _What do I do?_ He racked his brain for a way out of this unbelievable predicament, the fingers of one hand rising carefully to hover over the arm that lay on his chest. He plucked at the air, as if the limb could be persuaded to release him. The thought of Blaine waking up to find himself twined around Kurt's body and jumping away in horror was too mortifying. Kurt didn't think he could take it after everything else he'd been through lately.

 _Maybe I can roll him the other way_ , he thought, nodding slightly against the pillow. Yes, that seemed like the best option. It took a few more seconds, but Kurt's hovering hand gradually lowered to grasp Blaine by the elbow and gingerly turn him onto his back again. At least, that was the intent. At no time did Kurt grant permission for his traitorous fingertips to lovingly trace a line down the arm that circled him, almost like a real embrace. Kurt wanted to resist, but his body was weak, and all the little hairs on Blaine's forearm felt so soft and tickly against the pads of his fingers that he couldn't make himself stop.

An image of Blaine's earnest face before Davidson attacked him rushed forward from the recesses of Kurt's mind where he'd managed to shove it aside. Try as he might, Kurt couldn't think of one logical reason for that look. A very illogical reason was glaringly obvious, but he shook his head against the evidence of his own eyes. He wouldn't let himself believe it, in case... well, what if he was wrong?

As ashamed as he was to admit it, Kurt was scared. This was one rejection he couldn't face.

"Nnnnn."

Kurt's hand shot guiltily back to his side at Blaine's groan and he winced, prepared for the worst. He would be lucky if Blaine didn't punch him before he ran as fast as he could back to the safety of his locked cell. It was no more than he deserved for all his salacious fantasies, let alone for caressing the poor, unwilling man in his sleep.

He didn't get punched.

If he were able to think at all, he might even say he was being... nuzzled. As it was, most of his synapses were fully occupied with charting the movement of dry, satiny lips over a small patch of his neck. One or two flushed and zinging neurons reluctantly withdrew from the main event to remind the rest of Kurt's body of the need to inhale and exhale. The rest of his brain, or what used to be his brain and was now turning into more of a jiggly pudding, began to rapidly work out a description of the night's events for Kurt to carry about with him. That way he'd have it available for all those future nights when he would lie alone in his bed, attempting to recall this moment with perfect clarity and poetic narrative.

Unfortunately, he was no poet.

The sensation was like butterfly kisses? Cliché. An angel's whisper? Insipid. The touch of a pure white cloud floating gently on the horizon? Drivel. The hiss of the sun sinking into the ocean? A slight improvement. The flutter of a moth's wings as they hovered ever nearer to a candle's deadly flame? No. The indescribable ache of being within touching distance of your deepest desire and knowing that to reach out for it would be to push it irretrievably away? True, but hardly the vital part of this experience that he would want to relive again and again. Maybe he should focus on his present situation and leave the bad prose for another day.

With just enough sense left in his pudding head to suppress the urge to move, Kurt lay very still. He didn't arch his neck, or disentangle his hand from its tight grasp of the sheet and entwine it with the fingers that still rested protectively over his ribcage. Only Kurt's chest moved, under the pressure of rapidly inflating and deflating lungs. And Kurt's mouth, opening of its own volition when the barely tangible slide of lips changed, parted against that highly sensitive spot under Kurt's ear to make way for a warm, moist tongue. Kurt's hips jerked involuntarily, his clenched fist tugged harshly at the linens, and his chin hiked upward an inch in silent invitation despite his best efforts and despite the tiny voice in his head that continued to relentlessly protest that this was a mistake. That it wasn't deliberate. That Blaine was surely sleeping and unaware of what he did.

But that tiny voice was beginning to be drowned out by the screaming of Kurt's body, the crying out for him to risk everything and let himself trust that maybe it wasn't a mistake. The sheer want and silent begging of Blaine to please not stop. Please don't wake up and cringe and regret. Please, please, let this be real.

The tearful joy when Blaine's movements became more obviously deliberate. The burn of nerve endings wherever he touched. Silken lips that closed on Kurt's skin in repeated, suckling kisses, interspersed with slow swipes of tongue, licking him, tasting him, and the slide of a hand now splayed and stroking without hesitation over his flat and very male breast, thumbing the peak of a hardening nipple.

"What are you doing?" Kurt's foolish mouth whispered into the dimness of the room. His fears would not be silenced entirely until he knew, was positive that he wasn't dreaming. That neither of them were.

"You always smell so good," came the answer, breathy and warm in his ear. "Wondered how you would taste," Blaine said, followed by a soft moan that spoke of approval when he licked Kurt again.

"You," Kurt gasped with what little air he could hold within his panting lungs, "But. You aren't. You don't. Do you even?"

Blaine rose fluidly above him, one leg thrown over Kurt's spread, twitching ones, never leaving off his exquisite nibbling of Kurt's neck, but twisting his head to give equal treatment to the other side. "Do I?" Blaine murmured into his skin. Blaine's hips lowered and flexed, letting Kurt feel his answer in the hard cock brushing against his clothed one, rutting slowly. Kurt's hands went unbidden to the bare hips he'd dreamed of clutching. He held on tight.

"Do I know what I'm doing?" Blaine moaned at Kurt's non-verbal response. "Do I like men?" Sharp, white teeth nipped at his earlobe and Blaine's voice became a whisper. "Do I like  _you_ , Captain?"

Kurt could only nod his acknowledgement at the accurate labeling of his doubts.

In answer, Blaine slid lower, lips caressing as he went. He paid delicious tribute to Kurt's clavicle, and nibbled at the heaving chest through the V of his nightshirt. Then his hips pulled from Kurt's firm grip, moving down his thighs and forcing them closer together between Blaine's knees until a ripe, round bottom sank onto his lower legs, and Blaine's hands went to work unknotting the drawstring pants that Kurt wore to bed.

Fool though he might have been, Kurt didn't think of trying to stop him. He just lifted his head, watching with wide eyes, waiting to see what his so-called captive would do next. He stared at the quick-moving fingers and startlingly handsome man, whose bearded chin dipped down to scratch tenderly at the bulging flesh trapped beneath him. None of Kurt's lingering hesitation was reflected in Blaine's face. He looked perfectly at ease undressing a man, tugging down and tossing aside the unwanted sleep pants, and feasting his eyes on the furiously rigid shaft he'd revealed. He only took time to flash a satisfied smile up at Kurt before putting his tongue back to work.

Veins, ridges and foreskin were subjected to a vigorous licking while Blaine adjusted his position, wiggling and squeezing Kurt's shins closer together, then settling a thick, heavy erection in the crease between. Kurt's toes stretched and curled, his legs twisting under Blaine's weight, seeking more of that hardness.

Blaine paid no heed to the squirming. He smiled down at Kurt's exposed privates and slid a gentle grip around the base of his shaft to take up a slow, sensual stroking. That done, he set his other hand to cupping and squeezing the aching balls beneath, pulling gently, yet firmly enough to make Kurt's head fall back onto his pillow and his back arch. No one he had been with had ever bothered with the niceties before. The only person who knew how much his sac loved attention was himself. Until now. Blaine was not slow on the uptake. He dove down and lipped enthusiastically at the soft, wrinkled skin, sucking and licking for all he was worth, and Kurt never even noticed that the other hand had disappeared from his pulsating cock. He only knew, when he looked down again because he couldn't  _not_  look, that his hands had buried themselves in black curls, gripping and pulling in concert with his thrusting hips. His thighs strained with the effort of spreading so he could get more of that mouth where he needed it.

He was getting close already. His needy whimper must have given him away, because Blaine abruptly stopped sucking at his tightening balls and pressed his tongue flat to Kurt's cock, stroking firmly from base to tip. Then a hand resumed its grip and gently pulled Kurt's foreskin back from the shiny, pink crown so Blaine could wrap his swollen lips around it and dig his tongue into the slit.

Kurt's body was not his own anymore. He panted and squealed and grunted in an utterly unKurt-like display of wanton and unselfconscious greed. The clutch of hair was kept tightly in his grasp and his bowed back barely touched the bed. A hurricane could have kicked up outside and he wouldn't have noticed.

* * *

Blaine, on the other hand, was fully in control and moving things along exactly as he wished. When he felt the captain getting too close, he backed off, alternating between cock and balls to keep his soon-to-be-lover on the edge while he prepared himself for phase two of this happy accident-turned-seduction.

When he was good and stretched, three fingers buried deep, and he knew he couldn't wait much longer, he backed off for the last time. Soft, gentle kisses and licks took the place of engulfing down to the short hairs and the captain's gasping and thrusting slowly eased until he could look at Blaine again, eyes dark and unfocused, brimming with lust and wonder.

Blaine's own sultry gaze captured and held the look as he gave one more wet lick and then rose to a kneeling position over the prone captain. Straddling his hips and grasping his spit slick cock, Blaine gave the captain time to look down and see the fingers plunging deeply and repeatedly into himself. Captain swallowed, sweat beading on his forehead.

"It's too bad you don't have any oil," Blaine's husky voice broke the long silence and fresh tension. He could see the unwarranted nervousness returning and wasn't about to let the man talk himself out of this now. Blaine quickly removed his fingers and angled the hard shaft in his hand straight up, ready to plunge down on it if necessary.

"I have oil," the captain confessed in a rush, returning his strong hands to their rightful place: Blaine's hips.

Blaine's grin was slow and wide. "Why, you sneaky little pirate."

The captain had his lower lip caught between his teeth, his eyes bright and hopeful.

Falling suddenly forward until they were chest to chest and nose to nose, Blaine drew another gasp from his lover, this one of surprise. "Where is it," Blaine's voice was quiet and deep, almost commanding. He ran a finger along the captain's sharp and much admired jawline.

"Ah, it's, it's uh, it's," the words tumbled over themselves and the captain rotated his head within the dent of his pillow, glancing in the direction of the bedside table.

Blaine kissed him.

Captain's eyes went wide again, Blaine saw through lowering lashes. The man was astoundingly, charmingly innocent for someone of his age and profession. Blaine sank more fully into the kiss.

Following Blaine's lead, the captain parted his lips, tentatively offering his tongue and the exploration of his mouth. Blaine took him up on that and much more, willing to teach everything he knew or had ever imagined kissing could be. Turned out to be quite a lot. If Captain's throaty moans were anything to go by, Blaine was an expert. He got so into it, in fact, he hardly realized he'd stretched out fully on top of the other man, slipping a knee between his legs, his thigh pressing close, grinding. Captain's moans turning to short, high whimpers was what alerted him and made him pull back with a jerk.

"No! No, wait for me," Blaine gulped, forcing his hips to still. "Please, Captain," he begged, planting a dozen quick kisses on Captain's face. "Please," he whispered and leaned toward the bedside table, pulling the drawer open roughly and rummaging hurriedly through the contents. He didn't want to wait another moment.

His fingers lit on a small bottle and he whooped, snatching it up. Shaking hands fumbled to draw out the cork for several precious seconds before he stuffed the thing in his mouth and yanked it out. He grinned triumphantly down into Captain's sweaty, pink-flushed face, cork still stuck between his teeth.

Captain's unblinking eyes stared worshipfully back at him, then he reached up and gently plucked the cork from Blaine's mouth, his own lips twitching into a smile. Blaine kissed him again.

He kept his head this time, though, and was careful not to spill anything from the open bottle. It wouldn't do to waste any. They'd probably need every drop before the voyage was over. Captain was a quick study and Blaine was the one moaning and panting before he pulled back again. He wanted more than kisses.

Straddling his pirate's thighs, Blaine drizzled a bit of the aromatic liquid onto his palm, then cupped the thick, hard cock he'd been lusting after for weeks. He spread oil lovingly over the entire length, tracing circles around the head and reaching down to gently massage Captain's marvelously sensitive balls.

While Blaine was distracted, the captain plucked the dangerously tilting bottle from his grasp, recorked it and set it aside. Blaine smiled at him gratefully, taking a firm hold of his slickened shaft, and once again aiming it upward.

Seconds later he was sinking down, being filled at last. He groaned and let his head fall back on his shoulders. This. This right here, was the definition of ecstasy. This was where he belonged. He felt it in his bones even as he bottomed out, cheeks nestling against hips. "Fuck, Captain," he sighed.

"You can call me Kurt," Captain grunted through his teeth. Blaine opened his eyes again and looked at him. The pirate was obviously trying not to move, waiting for Blaine to adjust. He was just the sweetest thing.

Blaine lifted himself slowly, placing his hands gently over the ones gripping his hips and caressing to show that he liked having them there. On the downstroke, he gripped the nightshirt Captain still wore, tugging it and urging it off. Captain shucked it quickly over his head, exposing small, rosy nipples to Blaine's greedy gaze and caressing hands. He pinched them roundly and bent forward to nibble at a cleft chin. "I kind of like 'Captain,'" he whispered, eliciting a low moan that he took into his mouth.

They built up to a steady rhythm, Blaine going easy on the captain, and on himself at first. It had been quite a while for him. He employed lots of deep kisses, since it turned out they were both naturals and Blaine couldn't seem to get enough of Captain's tongue. But before long, he lost the ability to decide to be so rational. He was kissing the captain and laving his throat without conscious thought. He rode him harder and faster without planning, or because it was time, he simply needed it, needed that cock inside him, shoving mercilessly into his tight passage again and again. And Captain was there with him every step of the way, giving his all, jerking his hips off the bed to meet every one of Blaine's downthrusts, clutching and slamming into him like a rag doll, pounding him into oblivion, and finally taking him in hand to throw them both over the edge together.


	13. Deep Connections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Now that these two have finally got their act together, POVs will skip merrily between them so we can be in both headspaces at once.

* * *

"You're smiling."

Kurt's small, not-as-secret-as-hoped-for grin was quickly erased at the note of suspicion in Arty's tone. "Don't be ridiculous, Abe. Look," he pointed, "I think Mick's got one." A dozen or so men were spread out along the stern and side rails, long, wooden fishing poles in hand. Kurt and Arty were seated at a moderate distance, close enough to observe and far enough to not get whacked in the head.

"No, he doesn't," Arty didn't so much as glance at the sailing master who, in fact, hadn't caught a fish, but had managed to get his line tangled with one of the heavy tow ropes. "Why do you look like you've just discovered the lost treasure of Long Ben Avery?"

"Captain Avery's treasure wasn't lost. I'm sure he took it with him when he disappeared," Kurt evaded. "How are you and Mr. Finley getting along?"

"Fine. Except he tries to carry me everywhere," Arty reproached, shifting his newly made crutch a little closer, "and he snores like a hibernating bear. You might've warned me."

"Didn't I?" A dimple appeared briefly in Kurt's guiltless face. "It's nice of you to let him bunk in your room, though."

"As long as you and he didn't drum up some excuse because you think I can't take care of myself," Arty blustered. They both knew that Doc wouldn't have agreed to let him leave his sick-bed to stay in his cabin alone.

"Not at all. Finley was determined to give his cabin to those ladies. He spent a good ten minutes ranting and raving at me for ever locking them in the brig before I could get a word in and agree. He'd probably be sleeping in the passageway in front of their door if you hadn't taken pity. Between you and me, I think he's got a thing for the short one."

The women in question were walking around the main deck in freshly scrubbed clothes and hair, devoted first mate at their side, behaving for all the world as if they'd never laid eyes on a pirate. In fact, about half of the captives were on deck at the moment, the largest group yet, all of them enjoying a last day of fresh air before the ship would be approaching land. They'd been told they wouldn't be allowed abovedecks for a while. Not even Blaine would be able to bask in the sunshine where he obviously thrived.

As if called by the wistful turn of Kurt's thoughts, the cabin boy turned his head, aiming one of his heart-stopping smiles their way. 'I've never been fishing before,' he had told Kurt earlier, scampering around the cabin like an over-excited bunny and kissing him like Christmas had come early. After their long night and busy morning, Kurt didn't know where he got the energy.

"Shit!" Arty's voice startled Kurt out of the tender, sappy look he'd unconsciously begun to give in return. "What happened to Anderson? Did you kick him in the face?"

If not for the incredulity in his friend's expression, Kurt might've been insulted. "Do you really think I would kick a man in the face?" he scoffed, brushing back a lock of windblown hair. "I have people to do that for me."

"Ha!" Arty chortled. "That you do. Who was it, then, Puck? Don't tell me it was Cook! Not that I wouldn't believe it."

"Davidson, actually," said Kurt. "If it had been Cook, I doubt the damage would be to his face."

"True. Why bruise your knuckles on someone's face when you can have them spend a day or two heaving over the side and be truly miserable." Arty took another glance at the dark smudges that blackened the corners of Anderson's smiling eyes and extended beneath them in painful looking half-rings. "So, why did Davidson try to rearrange Anderson's face?"

"Didn't like it the way it was? It's no use trying to understand what sets him off. How are you feeling?" Kurt gently steered the conversation away from Davidson. And Blaine. And Davidson catching him with Blaine.

Arty was not a dull boy. He certainly didn't miss the somewhat abrupt change in topic. However, he also knew that not everyone aboard the ship held their cards as close to the vest as the captain. With a few discreet questions in the right ears, he'd soon be up to speed. "I'll live," he answered, putting his curiosity on hold. "Aches like hell, but Doc says once it's healed completely he can fit me with a peg. I'll look like a proper pirate then, won't I?"

Kurt's face became white and drawn, his smile strained. "You certainly will. I'll need to wear an eye patch at least, just to compete."

"We'll be the terror of the sea!" Arty tried to keep the mood light. "Even more so than we are now," he added, humoring his friend, whose reputation was considerably fiercer than the real thing. "I hear you had a run-in with Doc, as well. Something about catching the wrong end of Mick's cutlass?"

Kurt shrugged it off as nothing, too aware of the pant leg that was tied in a knot below one of Arty's knees and resolving again to find the person responsible. "Have you had a chance to look at the log books yet?" he asked, watching the small cluster of men that had begun to congregate around the ladies. Doc was talking to the perpetually blushing redhead. Finn was blinking down at the brunette in befuddlement while she regaled him with some story or other, aiming coy glances through her fringe. And the blonde appeared to have conquered the hearts of a whole slew of sailors with her easy smiles and friendly manners.

"Skimmed them this morning," replied Arty, sighing in the blonde's direction. "Almost every prisoner has worked, some more than others and none more than Anderson. How are things going with him? Is he good? Takes direction well?"

Heat bloomed in Kurt's core. Blaine  _was_  good. So very good. And he'd taken direction beautifully that morning. When Kurt had spooned up behind him and urged him to lift his leg, Blaine had complied without question, hooking an arm under his knee to spread himself open. And when Kurt had been thrusting roughly into him and asked if Blaine liked that, he hadn't hesitated to cry out, 'Yes, Captain!'

"He's fine." Kurt's voice came out thin and reedy. "Eager. Uh, helpful."

Arty frowned at his oddly flustered friend and passed him a mug of tea from the tray Billy had provided. "Any word from the Iron Fist yet?" He looked toward the ship that trailed behind them like a hulking shadow. Almost as fine a vessel as the Blackbird, if not as sleek and swift, it was a magnificent prize.

"Yes." It was necessary to take a gulp of his drink and try to get his voice back before Kurt continued. "Yes, Jack signaled as soon as they found Clarington's real books."

"Good," said Arty. "I'll start on them after we make port."

Nodding his assent, Kurt made a mental note to ask Doc's opinion on how much work Arty should be doing and how much rest he still needed each day. "Thanks, Abe. I'll take his personal logs and you can have the others. What I want to know is whether anyone else was in on his crimes. The crew doesn't seem unduly affected by his death, but I wonder about that first mate."

"Some of the crew claim they hadn't been paid in months," Arty shook his head in disgust. "If he treated them like dirt under his feet and tried to work them into their graves, I wouldn't expect them to grieve over the bastard."

Kurt's previous, uncomfortable flush of arousal twisted and changed into a much more familiar rise of frustrated anger. His jaw clenched against the urge to curse the dead man's soul. "I hate that he escaped punishment."

"Getting himself killed was hardly an escape, Captain. Anyway, don't let it get to you." Arty gave his shoulder a comforting pat. "His murdering days are over."

"Yeah." Kurt inhaled deeply, reining in his emotions before they could get out of hand. This was significantly aided by the sight of Blaine roaring in triumph and thumping his chest. He'd caught his first fish.

* * *

"Did you see the size of it?!" Blaine's voice rang out in the narrow passageway. He spun about and walked backwards, spreading his arms wide.

"That's what all the guys say." Kurt followed the excited man into his cabin and gave the door a little kick behind him, then grabbed the outstretched hands and brought them closer together.

Blaine barely had time to form a pout before he was swung in a quick half-turn. He yelped as his back hit the door, slamming it shut, and stared wide-eyed at the captain, who, it must be said, was looking quite pleased with himself. Before Blaine knew it, his hands were pinned to the door on either side of his head and he was sandwiched against the wood by slender hips and long legs. Thoughts of struggling couldn't quite latch on in his mind, sliding away as quickly as they entered. His head fell back and his muscles relaxed in silent surrender.

"You've caught me," he admitted. "Now what are you going to do with me?" he whispered the challenge.

The response was a bruising claiming of his lips and the even firmer press of a hard body closing any gaps between them, an answer Blaine was glad to accept until he was suddenly hefted from the floor. He hadn't noticed that his wrists had been released, but he was now being gripped tightly by an arm around his back and another under his buttocks. Instinctually, his own arms and legs wrapped around the body supporting his and he held on tight when Captain pushed away from the door and swung them toward the bed.

Moments later he was falling. The kiss was broken and he let out an 'oomph' when he hit the mattress, landing on his back with his slender and surprisingly strong lover landing on top of him, looking pleased with himself again. Blaine couldn't help but smile back and lift his head to rejoin their mouths.

Kurt really was pleased and kept up a steady flow of kisses while hurriedly divesting them both of their clothing. Once the barriers were removed, his attention and mouth slipped lower to blaze a trail across Blaine's collarbone and tease his soft nipples into hard little buds. He was bent over the foot of the bed between legs that had quickly resumed their previous position around his waist after being stripped of their borrowed pants. Hairy calves tickled his skin, sliding sensually up his back and down over his hips while Blaine's hands stroked wherever they could reach on Kurt's upper body.

Prying the seeking hands from himself, Kurt was hardly even aware of pressing them to the mattress, his focus still on finding out just how stiff and pebbly Blaine's nipples could get. He didn't immediately notice the way his partner had stopped writhing beneath him.

"You really enjoy restraining me, don't you, Captain," said Blaine. It was more of a delighted observation than an actual question.

Kurt's teeth released the small nub they'd been worrying and his loosened grip slid away from Blaine's wrists, his entire body tensing. He started to pull away, but was prevented by strong hands clutching his shoulders and sliding to his nape, pulling him close. "I never said I didn't like it," Blaine murmured between slow, gentle kisses to Kurt's softly parted lips.

"Really?" Kurt asked nervously. "Because I'll stop. I didn't mean to–"

"No. Don't stop." Blaine paused in his exploration of lush lips to lie back and look into the captain's eyes, his hips rocking slightly, his arousal unmistakable. "I want you to do it," he said, realizing that the captain would refuse to continue without an explicit invitation. "Hold me down. You could even tie me to the bed if you wanted." Blaine's eyes darkened and his hips moved more insistently. "Please," he begged, growing harder by the second, imagining what the pirate might do to him.

Kurt was frozen with indecision. Blaine was asking for something he had only fantasized about, never actually tried. His heart thundered against his ribs, his mind refusing to cooperate and consider all – or any – of the consequences. It just bellowed in his head, ' _Do it! What the hell are you waiting for? Look at him!_ '

It took less than five minutes, all told, to lunge for the armoire, lay hands on enough long sashes and cravats to do the job and, in between short, hard, necessary kisses, to truss Blaine to the bed like a calf for branding.

Blaine was laughing with excitement and, honestly, a good amount of humor at finding himself in the position he did. Still lying where he'd fallen, with his hips at the foot of the bed, his legs were now spread wide instead of wrapped around a slim waist. Each ankle was secured high to a bed post, dangling from it by a length of cloth, rather than tied directly to the wood. He could swing his legs slightly. What he could not do was lower or close them. And since he wasn't far enough up the mattress for his hands to be tied to the other posts, his pirate had simply attached the other ends of the wrist restraints to Blaine's ankle bindings. He pulled at the ties, testing their strength, because Captain was standing next to the bed, staring in amazement at his own handiwork, and it seemed like the thing to do.

Kurt watched Blaine tug gently at his restraints, as if fearful they might come loose. He could have told him there was little chance of that. Kurt could tie a knot as well as any sailor, and Blaine would not be going anywhere until someone freed him. This was like a dream. Definitely one of his most private and repressed dreams. Even having done the deed himself, he couldn't believe this stunning man was willingly tied up and waiting for him.

Gradually, he moved to the foot of the bed again. He stood in the V of Blaine's legs and raised a hand to stroke a smooth thigh that shivered at his touch. At Blaine's sensitive inner thigh, he lingered, admiring the heavy shaft that lay inches away. He could see the vein throb in time with the beat of Blaine's heart, the foreskin pulled back and the tip glistening with a drop of clear fluid, showing Kurt in a very physical way how much he was wanted. He licked his lips and bent forward, watching the straining organ twitch and pulse. Blaine raised his hips, trying to get closer. "Captain," his captive – truly captive now – moaned in need.

It was a delicious thing, Blaine's cock; so warm and velvet soft, yet so hard and unyielding that Kurt's lips could wrap around it as tightly as possible and never cause pain. Hurting Blaine was the last thing he wanted to do. What he most wanted was for Blaine to need him, to crave his touch. Only his. It was a desire that Kurt had kept buried deep for as long as he could remember – the heartfelt wish to belong to one person and have them belong to him in return. He wanted to be 'the one' for someone. Someone who felt that no one else in the world would do. Only Kurt. He didn't know if that was normal.

He let the thick flesh slide out of his mouth to throb against Blaine's flat stomach again. His fingers stroked up and down, letting the foreskin slide over the wide, blunt crown and back, so his tongue could lick a stripe up the length and lap gently at the sensitive spot under the glans. Blaine panted and moaned, his hips moving in a continuous, shallow thrusting motion. "Captain," he sighed, rubbing his erection slowly across lips and tongue.

Kurt licked and sucked for long, wonderful minutes, lapping at the slit and under the dark pink ridge, taking his time, just because he could. Desire thrummed through him, coiling and slithering along his veins, casting off nervousness and doubt. So that, when he slipped to his knees at the foot of the bed, he didn't worry about whether he should do this or how it might look. His thumbs spread Blaine unhesitatingly and he pressed his mouth to the tight, furrowed bud. His tongue was eager and the sounds Blaine made were the sweetest, most perfect music.

Blaine had lost all track of time. He only knew he was begging, pleading for something; he wasn't sure what anymore. He certainly didn't want the magic of that tongue to stop, but he needed so much more. His whole body was writhing with it, his hips thrusting continuously, the emptiness inside him aching to be filled. "Please, please, please," he chanted, trusting his lover to give him what he needed.

And then the indescribable rightness of Captain's hard length pressing against his entrance, pushing relentlessly past that first, tight barrier. Blaine was nearly sobbing with gratitude. "Please," he begged some more, his eyes squeezed shut and his body clenching, trying to pull Captain deeper. Blaine could never get enough of the sensation of being filled, and never felt more like himself, more whole than at these moments. He needed it so much that he honestly didn't understand how other men could go without it. They must not know. They couldn't possibly know what they were missing, because, to Blaine, there was nothing else like it in the world.

He groaned helplessly and felt himself go slack when Captain was finally as deep as he could get into Blaine's body. His head lolled on the mattress, his lips parted and heart pounding. "Thank you," he said to the air. Then, "Fuck me." Slitted eyes rested on the flush-cheeked man standing between his wide-spread thighs. "Please, Captain."

Kurt wrapped his arms around Blaine's upraised legs, gripping the tops of his thighs and trying hard to push back the need to come immediately. He wanted to make it as good for Blaine as it was for him, if that was possible. Being buried to the hilt inside this man was almost overwhelming. It made his legs tremble with the effort of staying upright. But Blaine was asking him to move and Kurt would give him anything he wanted. So he pulled back, a slow, wet slide to let Blaine feel every inch that invaded his tightly clenched passage. And when he was almost out, and Blaine was spasming and pulling hard at his bindings, trying to thrust himself downward, back onto Kurt's cock, that was when he slammed back in.

Blaine's cries echoed through the room and in Kurt's ears, driving him to go harder and faster and, "Please, please, don't stop." And Kurt didn't. He hammered into Blaine's body like his life depended on it. Maybe it did. Maybe sawing his cock in and out of Blaine's tight hole and pounding his prostate with long, desperate thrusts, was the most important thing he would ever do. At that moment, it felt like it was.

At that moment, bending forward and bracing his arms on either side of Blaine's chest, putting as much force as he had in him behind every stroke, was the only thing in the world that mattered. That, and watching Blaine's face twist into pure, ecstatic joy, and his back arch off the bed when he came, was surely enough to make up for everything that had ever been lacking from Kurt's whole, miserable life. Better even than the climax that rushed through him like a tornado seconds later and dragged his own uninhibited shouts out into the open for the first time.

* * *

"How did you manage to rip all these stitches?!"

It was mid-afternoon by the time they'd emerged again, and their first stop was the doctor, whose aggravated squawk could probably be heard all the way down in the brig.

He flung Kurt's red-stained bandage into a bowl and glared at the offender, not realizing that Kurt had withstood Lauren's nagging for far too long to be impressed by an amateur. "Don't make me confine you to bed rest," Doc threatened. Behind him, Blaine ducked his head and bit hard into his bottom lip.

"There's no need for that," Kurt said evenly, as Blaine's shoulders quivered. Bright, hazel eyes peeked at him from underneath a dark swath of hair. "I'll be sure to spend as much time as possible in bed."

Poorly stifled, wheezing snorts filled the room, emphasized by the silence of Doc's closed mouth and flat look. Kurt pretended not to hear Blaine, regarding the doctor with a politely inquisitive expression when he folded his arms and tapped an impatient foot.

"A bed down here," he clarified. "Alone."

In hindsight, Kurt thought maybe he should have waited until after Doc had patched him up again before cracking jokes. Lesson learned.

"Does it hurt?" asked Blaine as they made their way toward the galley an hour later.

"No," grouched a completely sober Kurt.

"I won't think less of you if you say it does."

"No."

"In fact, I'd probably find your honesty and confidence in your own manliness to be so charming and sexy that I would gladly drop to my knees and worship your cock any time you like."

"It feels like the devil has stuck a flaming pitchfork in my arm."

Blaine stopped him before they left the solitude of the quiet passageway. "I'm sorry." He cupped the captain's sweet face and leaned in for a short, chaste, guilty kiss. "I promise to take better care of you from now on."

Kurt reconnected their mouths with a lot less chastity. "And?"

"And suck you off as often as possible." Blaine smiled.

"That's all I ask." Kurt thought about it. "Well, not  _all_  I ask," he amended.

"Come on. Let's eat something and get back to the cabin so I can show you how very, very sorry I am."

"Don't be sorry." Kurt's expression suddenly became serious. "I don't regret one second of it." His head shook and he closed the distance between them to rest his forehead against Blaine's. "Not one second. My arm will be fine in a couple of weeks. I'm going to have that memory for the rest of my life," he whispered.

Blaine had to hide his face in Captain's neck. He didn't regret it either. More than that, he was absolutely certain he was the luckiest man alive. "So will I."

* * *

The galley door was closed when they got there. Kurt paused to compose himself, futile as the effort may be. He hadn't seen her since yesterday, before his life had changed so dramatically that he hardly recognized it now. The looks they'd gotten as they crossed the open deck told him that their highly vocal encounter in his cabin that afternoon had been a little too loud for discretion. Now, here he was, wound tight with nervous embarrassment and knowing that his cool mask would be useless. Lauren had always been able to read him like an open book. A children's book. With illustrations.

"What's the worst that could happen?" Blaine tried to comfort him when he saw Captain hesitate. "You might get a good ribbing, but it's only because she loves you."

Kurt knew he was right. In fact – his nervousness melted away and he grinned, planting a quick kiss at the corner of Blaine's mouth – this could be his chance to finally beat Lauren at her own game. "Come on," he said conspiratorially and opened the door.

Lauren glanced up from a large batch of bread dough and suppressed a gleeful smirk. Kurt could wear that blank expression from here to China. It wouldn't change the fact that he was practically glowing. And as for Anderson! Well, he looked like a kid who'd just gotten his first pony. Hell, a whole stable full of ponies. She ducked her head to keep from laughing right out loud and went back to kneading.

Blaine walked past the cook, who stood at one of the empty dining tables, elbow deep in a big, white tub of something or other. Her twinkling glance had him walking faster to Billy's side. "Where's Alex?" he asked, trying to sound casual as he began preparing a tray for the captain and himself.

"Up top, helpin' clean the catch for supper," the boy answered without looking up from his own task. "Where've ye been? Didn't see you at breakfast or lunch. Cap'n starvin' you, then?"

Unable to detect any mockery in Billy's voice, Blaine skimmed past the reason why food had seemed unimportant a short time ago. "Wasn't really hungry." He hoped he wouldn't be betrayed by an untimely growl. His stomach was so empty it felt like it was starting to cave in. "Any leftovers?"

"There are," answered Billy, pointing at a relatively small pot that simmered at the back of the stove. He'd finally looked up and was blinking in puzzlement at Blaine, who put all his focus into not blushing or patting down the hair that Captain very much liked to clutch fistfuls of. Billy's slow-building smile said it was pointless, and his giggle when Blaine grinned cheekily back was priceless. He kept quiet and spooned up two hefty bowls of leftover stew. No reason to pretend he wasn't starving now.

Kurt surveyed the empty room as if scoping out the best seat, then made himself comfortable a few feet from Lauren, all without looking directly at her. He waited, noting that she kept up her work for almost a full thirty seconds before wiping her hands and covering the bowl with a towel. He met her eyes as she sat down across from him. It was a contest to see which of them would crack first. He was feeling pretty confident.

"Missed you at breakfast," she said. He nodded, knowing she was just warming up. "And lunch," she drawled, like a mother who'd caught her boy with his hand in the cookie jar.

He replied with a non-committal, "Mm-hmm."

"You're here now, though."

He saw no need to respond to the glaringly obvious.

"Couldn't wait for the dinner bell?"

He quirked a wry brow, silently reminding her whose ship this was. Not that she cared about such things.

"Worked up an appetite today, did you, Captain?" One side of her mouth moved in the tiniest of knowing smirks. She'd never learned to watch out for overconfidence.

"Definitely," he agreed, enjoying the flicker of confusion she quickly hid. She'd naturally expected denials, and wasn't able to change tack and come at him from a new angle quite fast enough. The hesitation cost her, because Blaine was coming toward them with a tray then and her opportunity was lost.

"Here we are, Captain," he said, setting the loaded tray off to the side, then placing a napkin and utensils in front of Kurt.

"Thank you, Anderson," Kurt said without breaking his gaze from Lauren's. He reached toward the tray, wrapping a hand around Blaine's wrist instead. With a sharp pull and twist, Blaine was in his lap, and his mouth was captured in a surprise kiss.

Startled though he was, Blaine recovered quickly. His arms went around Captain's neck and he parted his lips, deepening the kiss and going pliant in his pirate's embrace. He barely registered the shriek from across the table or the renewed and much louder giggles from the other side of the room. By the time Captain broke the kiss, Blaine's hunger pains were back to seeming irrelevant. "You're welcome," he said, when Captain just smiled warmly into his eyes, still holding him and pressing small kisses to his lips, but making no move to haul him off to bed or have him right there at the table.

"You!" Cook yelled, causing Blaine to look over his shoulder at her red face and wide eyes. He slid off the captain's lap and set the table for them both. Captain had really worked him over earlier, and he suddenly remembered he was famished. So, he left the two friends to haggle over how many details she would and wouldn't get, and dug into his meal.

"You," Lauren said again, unable to organize her thoughts into a more coherent accusation.

"Yes?" Kurt asked, all patience and politeness as he lifted a generous spoonful to his mouth. He had time to chew and swallow while she continued to gape. "Mmm. Delicious," he told her.

"You?" she asked, far more affected than Kurt could have anticipated, considering she'd gone out of her way to shove Blaine down his throat... so to speak. He wasn't sure why she was so completely poleaxed, but he was certainly enjoying the novelty.

Lauren twitched and shuddered, sitting across from the two extraordinary men who'd just given her the show of a lifetime. Up until then, her knowledge of Kurt's activities had been purely academic; an abstract understanding that he was attracted to males instead of females. She'd never really thought about what that meant, let alone seen it in action. She'd never imagined it would be so thrilling to watch two men together, and Kurt was like her brother, which made it disturbing, as well. She shook it off and rose to her feet, going back to the bread dough to mechanically finish kneading and rolling it out. Some things were not meant to be dwelled on.

 _Victory!_  Kurt's inner voice shouted unrepentantly. If he'd known it was that easy to throw Lauren off-kilter, he'd have ravished Blaine weeks ago.


	14. Locked Away

"You should be still when someone is holding a razor to your face," Kurt scolded. He grasped a pinch of Blaine's beard, pulled it straight, and carefully sheared it in half.

"Can't help it. You're distracting." Blaine's palms slid up the bare thighs that straddled him, and around slender hips to caress the supremely squeezable cheeks resting on his lap. Between them, the captain's soft penis stirred. It didn't seem to matter how well used and sated their bodies were. Blaine himself had been sporting a semi ever since the other man had pushed him into a chair and sat on him.

The compliment warmed Kurt's cheeks. His upper ones. A pair of big, friendly hands warmed the other set. "Still, you would probably prefer to keep your nose intact," he said, gamely ignoring the eruption of tingles taking place below.

Pert, pink nipples were at eye level, but Blaine wasn't allowed to lick them because that would require moving his face. Nothing had been said about his hands. They were free to roam.

"Do you want your beard to look like it was trimmed with a hatchet?" Kurt fixed a stern expression on his face, quite a feat when, subconsciously, he was counting the number of fingertips stroking up and down his crack.

"If we had to do this again tomorrow, that wouldn't be the worst thing." Blaine and his fingers continued about their business.

It occurred to Kurt that sitting nude on his cabin boy's lap and grooming his beard for him might be undermining his authority, assuming he had any left. Not that he planned to stop. "I might let you stick more than your fingers back there if we finish this first." Who said pirates don't negotiate?

Blaine's semi filled and lengthened. Smiling brightly, and focusing on the first half of Captain's sentence rather than the latter, he used his free hand to grasp his own hardening prick like a tool, and playfully tapped the captain's with it before poking and diddling his two perfect stones encased in their soft, pink pouch. This was a fun game.

"Razor!" Kurt reminded on a gasp.

"I trust you," said Blaine, releasing himself to pull back Captain's foreskin and swipe a thumb over the tip. At first, Blaine didn't notice the statue his lover had become, being, as he was next, busy trying to get both of their hardening cocks into one hand from an awkward angle.

When he did notice, he realized he was being stared at in a way that was not unlike Cook's expression after their spectacular reveal earlier that evening, and in the next moment, the captain was kissing him blind.

* * *

Moonlight still cast its pale glow into the room when Blaine awoke to a soft rustling sound. Next to him, his searching hand found cool, empty sheets, making him frown and lift his head. "Cap'm?" he mumbled.

"Shh, I'm right here," Kurt whispered and bent over the bed to press his lips to Blaine's forehead. "Go back to sleep."

"Are you leaving?" Dragging his eyes slightly more open, Blaine was disappointed to see the other man wearing clothes.

"I have to work. We'll be there soon."

A feather-light touch grazed Blaine's face. "Oh." He blinked sadly up at the shadowed figure leaning over him. "When will you be back?"

"Not until this afternoon. Will you be all right here by yourself?" Kurt fastened his boots and collected his pistol from the locked cabinet.

It was a little late to be asking, since Blaine knew he couldn't go outside again until they'd put back out to sea. "Yes, sir."

At the crestfallen tone, Kurt walked slowly back and sat down on the side of the bed. He automatically reached out to stroke Blaine's bare chest. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Blaine."

"Do you have to go right now?" A gentle tug on Captain's arm brought him closer until they were cheek to cheek and Blaine could nibble lightly at the pulse point beneath his ear.

"Mm, wish I didn't."

"I can be quick." Blaine's hand slipped downward.

Kurt moaned and buried his face into the crook of Blaine's neck and shoulder. "Don't tempt me."

"But I want to tempt you," he whispered back.

"Blaine-"

"Captain..." Blaine was smiling by now, sensing a win.

"Mmph." Kurt kissed him hard and stood, moving away before he could change his mind. "I really have to go, but I will be back as soon as I possibly can." His heavy gaze swept over Blaine's delectable form, barely concealed by the rumpled bed linens.

Blaine sighed, dropping back onto the mattress from where he'd begun to sit up and protest. "Okay, okay. I understand. I'm just going to miss you is all. Yesterday was so amazing, spending the entire day together." Puppy eyes trained upward, causing the captain to take a step forward before he literally shook off the connection with a grunt of frustration.

Kurt had to turn away to regain control of himself. "Someone will bring your breakfast in a while," he rasped and cleared his throat. "I left the razor out so you can finish what we started last night."

"Really?" Blaine sat up sharply.

"Yes." Feeling able to look at his lover again without caving, Kurt smiled at the happy surprise he saw. "I trust you."

Blaine threw off the sheets and strode over to the captain, completely nude and unselfconscious. "Thank you," he said, wrapping him up in a hug.

Kurt's face dropped easily onto Blaine's shoulder and he sighed gustily. "Okay, I actually have to leave while I still can." And with one last, quick kiss, he went.

The rest of the morning passed quickly for Blaine. He was excited for the chance to trim his beard just so, after which he sifted curiously through the contents of the washstand's  _for once_  unlocked drawer. He even sharpened Captain's razor with the yellow-gray whetstone he found there. Later he browsed the small, but well cared for selection of books on hand, tidied the room, and tried on a number of outfits from the voluminous armoire.

All of those distractions, accompanied by lots of interesting sounds coming from topside as the ship pulled into what he could only assume was their home port, plus chatting with Alex, who brought his meal and kept him company while he ate, meant it was afternoon before he knew it. He washed up in a hurry as soon as he realized, scrambling to get ready for Captain's return, without knowing exactly how much longer he would have to wait.

When Kurt could – at last! – get away that first day, after seeing off most of the men and assuring Finn for the third time that, yes, he was perfectly willing to stay aboard with the watchstanders and keep an eye on things, he couldn't get to his cabin fast enough. He opened the door and stopped in his tracks.

There was Blaine, beautiful Blaine, stretched out on the bed, one arm behind his head. He was draped in a thin, white dress shirt that he must have dug out of the deep recesses of the armoire, although it would not be accurate to say he was dressed. The shirt gaped wide at its lace-collared neck and was rucked up over the taut planes of his abdomen, and he wore nothing else. Nothing obstructed the path of his hand, which slid slowly downward from his chest, through the line of dark hair below his navel. His knuckles brushed past the velvet-soft flesh that began to firm and grow as Kurt watched, and farther until he cupped the low, heavy balls between his spread thighs, rolling them gently and holding them in an open palm like an offering.

* * *

"Did you always want to be a pirate?"

"What?" Kurt shifted where he lay, recovering from his exertions by snuggling comfortably against Blaine's side, head resting on a muscle-padded shoulder with an arm wrapped possessively around his back.

"When you were a little boy, did your mother read you bedtime stories full of exciting pirate adventures?"

"No." He thought back to his early childhood, when he was blissfully ignorant and happy. "She sang beautiful lullabies," he said wistfully.

"That sounds nice." Blaine sounded a bit wistful himself.

"Your mother didn't sing?"

"Not much. I don't think she enjoyed it," Blaine mused. "My love of music comes from my paternal grandmother, who found a kindred spirit in me after raising a son who was nothing like her. Whenever I visited, we would spend hours in the music room. She would teach me to play the piano forte, or she would play and I would twirl around the room, singing and dancing."

"I wish I could have seen that." Kurt smiled, fingers idly stroking around a faded bruise over Blaine's ribs.

"Imagine how differently our lives might have turned out if we'd grown up together. Do you think we would have been like brothers? Or would we have been groping each other behind the stables?"

"Groping. Definitely." Kurt demonstrated.

"You're right. It would've been only a matter of time before I couldn't keep my hands off of you, which is basically what happened here."

A quiet noise of disbelief passed Kurt's lips. "I had no idea, you know."

Blaine grinned and stuck his nose into vibrant locks that smelled faintly of hibiscus. "Yes, I gathered that. Not sure how you missed it, though. Your friends didn't."

"I suppose people see what they expect to see."

"What did you expect?"

"For you to hate me," Kurt replied, as if it were only natural.

Blaine felt like he was missing some key element in this conversation. "Why?"

"Because I wanted you."

That cleared up precisely nothing. "Why would your wanting me make me hate you?"

Kurt shrugged within the circle of Blaine's arm. "That's how my life works. I don't get the things I want."

"You've got me." Blaine's voice had gone soft and cajoling, and he tipped up his irresistible pirate's face to show him with kisses that it was true.

Although Kurt knew he didn't really have Blaine, he pushed aside bothersome worries about the future and let himself soak up the wonder of now.

* * *

"You never answered my question yesterday." Blaine was the one snuggled up in a warm embrace the next afternoon. It was their second day in port and they'd already settled into a routine, with Blaine rifling through Captain's wardrobe in his absence and waiting, scantily clad, for his return. This led to enthusiastic sex, as intended, followed by cuddling and conversation. It was heavenly.

"Hmm? What question?" Kurt murmured drowsily.

"Did you always want to be a pirate?" Blaine felt and heard the chuckle that rumbled under his ear.

"No," Kurt answered simply.

"Not until you grew up, you mean?"

"No. Never."

"Oh." Blaine waited, perplexed. "Well, what happened, then?" he asked, applying a small nipple twist for the short, unsatisfactory reply, then almost forgot his question when Captain giggled at him. Giggled! He was too cute. Also naked. Blaine lifted the sheet covering their hips for a peek underneath. The giggles were cut short by an indignant squeak and Blaine's hand was batted away.

"Lech," Kurt accused and tucked the sheet under his bottom on the opposite side from Blaine, who pressed closer, insinuating a hairy knee between Kurt's thighs.

"Are you going to answer me or will I have to pinch you again?" Blaine's thumb and forefinger poised threateningly.

"Fine!" Kurt manfully suppressed further giggles. "You want to know how I became a pirate. Well, it was what you might call an accident." He stared off into nothingness, reliving events he would never forget. Two silent minutes later, he was pinched but good. "Hey!" He gave Blaine's hand another slap.

"Start talking, or it'll be my teeth next time."

 _Was that supposed to be a threat? Hmm._  Kurt weighed his options. On the one hand, it wouldn't be difficult to distract Blaine, considering they were undressed and in bed. On the other hand, no matter how thoroughly Kurt wiped it from Blaine's mind for the time being, the topic was sure to rear its ugly head later. He sighed in defeat. "I suppose you weren't that far off before. In a way, it did start with my mother."

"Because she read you glorious pirate adventures?"

"No. She died."

"What?" Blaine jerked up onto an elbow to look down into a sad, distant expression. "I'm so sorry. Does it bother you to talk about this? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"It's all right. It happened a long time ago." Kurt pulled him down for a sweet kiss, tongue gently stroking into Blaine's mouth again and again until he earned a low, whimpered moan. Then he settled his somewhat dazed lover snugly back into his side. An arm was pushed under the small of Kurt's back and another wrapped around his waist as Blaine clung to him.

It was a full minute before Blaine, mouthing a lean, pale chest, recalled that he'd wanted to talk now and kiss later, not the other way around. When he did, he could only admire the sneaky tactics that had nearly succeeded in diverting him again. "How old were you?" he asked, not bothering with remonstrations.

Kurt smiled at his persistence. "I was eight," he said and was squeezed in response. Blaine's face was still buried in his torso, but his shoulders had tensed and the kisses along Kurt's breastbone paused. Kurt sank long fingers into the thick curls at his nape to let him know it was okay to ask.

"What about your father?" Blaine held his breath, ready to drop the subject and spend hours making up for it if the news was bad.

"My father is the best person I've ever known. I don't know how I would have survived without him."

Able to breathe again, Blaine relaxed his hold and turned his head to rub his cheekbone against Captain's smooth chest like an adoring cat. "I'm glad you didn't have to go through that alone."

"So am I. Even if nothing else in my life ever goes right, at least I am my father's son. I'll always have that."

"He's lucky to have you, too." Blaine mulled over his next question. Though he would have liked to argue against the captain's apparent belief in his own bad luck, he didn't know enough about his past. Not yet, anyway. "Does he know about you?"

"Does he know what, that I'll never marry and give him grandchildren?"

Blaine chuckled. "No, that isn't what I meant, but now I'm curious. Does he know about your, um, predilections?"

"My predilections. I like that, and yes, he does. It took me a long time to work up the courage to tell him, but I finally did."

"You're braver than I am. How did he take it?"

"He hugged me and thanked me for trusting him. Apparently, he had suspected it for years."

"Really?" Blaine's head popped up. "I wonder if my father knows." He frowned. "No, it's impossible. I can just imagine walking up to him and saying, 'Father, it's time you knew that I will never marry, because I like cock and taking it up the ass.' I'd be disowned faster than I could finish that sentence."

"I'm sorry." Kurt hugged him tighter. "I wish everyone could have a father as wonderful as mine."

"I'm sure my father loves me, somewhere, deep, very deep, inside," Blaine said unconvincingly. He couldn't remember ever receiving a fatherly hug, except from Mr. Figgins. "But we've gotten off topic." He gave Captain a mock glare. "What does any of this have to do with you being wicked and dastardly?"

"You think I'm wicked?" Kurt asked, flattered.

"Very. In fact, you're much too sexy for someone so nefarious. I'm sure you must have an evil plot to lure me into your bed." Blaine, sprawled wantonly atop the man, scowled down into his grinning face. Or tried to. Blaine had never had much practice at scowling.

Kurt's hands glided down to scoop and knead Blaine's supple buttocks. "Surely you can resist me if your thoughts are pure," he murmured silkily.

With a sigh, Blaine let his scowl melt away. "That's just it. My thoughts want me to suck your dick and ride you like a racehorse."

"It sounds like you are the wicked one." Prying the cheeks apart, Kurt circled a fingertip around the furrowed skin that made Blaine shudder and spread his thighs.

"Yes. It does," Blaine whispered, head tilting forward and thoughts scattering when the teasing finger pushed inside.

* * *

"Ouch. What was that for?" Kurt opened an eye to peer upward and rubbed at the spot where he'd just been smacked.

"For distracting me with your wiles instead of explaining how one  _accidentally_  becomes a pirate. Don't think I'll fall for that again," huffed Blaine, whose gaze jumped quickly from Captain's hand caressing his own rear back to the single sea-blue eye that nevertheless was able to convey a great deal of humor.

Amused became sultry in a blink. "As I recall, it was you who wanted to saddle me up and ride me."

"Yes. Well." Blaine's airway felt constricted. "Be that as it may, you've evaded my question long enough." He tried the scowling thing again. Captain smiled. "Please?" Captain kissed him.

These days, Kurt was having a hard time  _not_  smiling at or kissing Blaine. Luckily, he didn't have to not do those things anymore. He kissed him again to prove the point. Blaine growled threateningly while kissing him back. Blaine, as it turned out, didn't have a good grasp on how to threaten.

When Blaine broke the kiss and pulled a pout, however, Kurt couldn't say no. "Are you sure you want to hear this?" Blaine's head nodded vigorously against the pillow.

With that, Kurt told him briefly of his grief over the loss of his mother, admitting to a childish anger at the unfairness of it and touching on the fear of losing his father as well. Blaine held him close, quietly letting Kurt unburden himself. He made it so easy that Kurt even confessed to the adolescent excursions through the city that he had thought of as his patrols.

"Did your father know what you were doing?"

"I don't think so. He knew I did a lot of walking, but I'm sure he would have tried to stop me had he known where I was going, or why." Kurt gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "It's a wonder I'm still alive." Blaine didn't laugh. "Anyway, one day I found the trouble I'd been looking for."

The story of the little girl's kidnapping came out haltingly; what he'd witnessed and how he had instinctively run and jumped onto the carriage before it could get away. Blaine's arms grew progressively tighter as the tale unfolded until Kurt could hardly breathe. Yet, for some reason, he didn't mind.

Looking back, Kurt was embarrassed at the half-baked, childhood notion that if he could make  _bad guys_  go away, everything would somehow magically be better. How he would manage such a thing was never exactly laid out in his mind. All he'd had was an end goal, not a plan, still too young to realize the difference. "I've never told anyone this," he said quietly, listening to Blaine's steady pulse under his ear, "but deep down in my secret heart, I had this crazy idea that if someone else had done the same thing sooner, if the world had been a better place, then my mother might have lived."

Blaine ached for the poor little boy who had lost his mother, wishing with all his heart that there was something he could have done, or something he could say now to take the pain away. But there was nothing. All he could do was hold him and listen and not judge.

The comfort Kurt received from just being in Blaine's arms was indescribable. It was nothing like a hug from his father or Lauren. Lying there in bed, being cuddled by Blaine, he felt more at peace than he could ever remember. The dark, frozen knot of impotent anger he had carried around for most of his life began to dissolve away, and as they held each other, he said a silent goodbye to his beloved mom.

"Are you all right?" Blaine asked gently, kissing the top of Captain's head.

"Yeah. I'm good," said Kurt, and meant it in a way that he hadn't in a long time. "Where was I?"

"You had just saved a sweet little girl from kidnapping or worse, and I imagine you were about to tell me that, afterward, your father locked you in the attic for a year."

Kurt snorted. "He probably kicks himself now for not thinking of that, and that 'sweet little girl' was a hellion, I'll have you know. While I was leaving clumsy hand prints all over the driver's face, she was inside the carriage, screaming bloody murder. She tried to bite the nose off the poor bastard who snatched her, you know, and from the way he was curled into a ball when they pulled him out, I'm guessing she landed some very well-placed kicks too. He was probably grateful to be locked away afterward."

Blaine laughed. "She sounds like someone I would like."

"I wonder what ever happened to her," mused Kurt. "She's probably married and starting on her own little brood of hellions by now."

"I feel for her husband," Blaine sympathized. "So, what happened next? After your stint in the attic, or wherever your father was forced to contain you for your own safety."

"Locking me up wouldn't have done any good, I'm afraid. No, what he did was far more devious. He put me to work."

"Doing what?"

"He got me a job at the harbor where he worked. I had already been on several voyages with him as a child, but after that I was around ships and sailors all the time. That was where I fell in love with the sea, despite my status as a lowly landlubber."

"And that was when you decided you wanted to become a pirate?" Blaine asked, befuddled by the convoluted story that never seemed to point toward the captain having a sudden urge to loot and pillage.

"No," huffed Kurt. "You're fixated on my wanting to be a pirate."

"But..."

"I know. I can see how you might think that."

"Exactly," Blaine agreed in exasperation. "Explain, please."

"Like I said, I met a lot of sailors–"

"Wait," Blaine stopped him, brow arching. "Exactly what kind of story is this?"

Kurt punched him lightly on the arm. "Hush. I was  _fifteen_."

"Old enough. I don't know many boys who would wait longer than they had to."

"Maybe I had to."

"I don't believe that. Don't forget, I know what you look like."

Though the compliment made Kurt smile, he nevertheless argued. "I looked different then, and younger than my age."

"This isn't that kind of story, then?"

"Definitely not."

"Oh."

"Would you still like to hear it?"

"I suppose." Blaine's exaggerated sigh of disappointment drew a note of musical laughter that made his chest feel tight.

"Would it help if I fondle you while I speak?" asked Kurt.

"It would help if you fondle me at all times," said Blaine, his sigh turning pleased when a hand slipped between his thighs. "What were you doing with all those sailors then, if not making them glad to be alive?"

"Talking."

"Talking with tongue, or–?"

"They know things," Kurt said, mostly ignoring him, but tugging gently at the soft skin of his scrotum. "They travel all over the world and they talk to each other, share information."

"What kind of information?"

"Everything imaginable, from the frivolous to the appalling."

"Appalling." Blaine went quiet, carding fingers through Captain's silky locks.

"Yeah," Kurt said quietly, thinking back while tracing the dark line of hair down Blaine's stomach. "One day, I heard a story about children disappearing from harbor towns."

"Another kidnapper?" Blaine frowned.

Kurt's head shook. "This was different than the little hellion. These kids were disappearing from the poorest neighborhoods and there were no ransom demands. They were just gone."

"What did you do?" Blaine asked with dread.

Kurt dragged his head back from the middle of Blaine's chest to look up at him. "What would you do if you knew a child was in danger?"

"I'd tell the magistrate! Isn't it his job to catch criminals?"

"My father tried that, but all we had to report were rumors of children going missing from different towns. There was no proof that they were connected, and magistrates have no authority outside their own jurisdictions."

"They didn't do anything?"

"Nothing productive," confirmed Kurt.

"That's terrible. What did you do?" Blaine's tone had changed from disapproving to demanding.

"The only thing I could do," Kurt answered grimly. "I thought the criminal had to be a sailor, so I went looking. At each port, I hired someone to quietly find out which ships had been there when kids went missing. It took weeks. The wait was hell. But in the meantime, I took the money I'd been saving to buy my own merchant ship, and used it to get a small, fast frigate. Then my father and brother and I rounded up enough people we trusted to sail her. By the time we had a trail to follow, we were ready."

"You found out who it was and, instead of telling someone, you went after him yourself?" Blaine was starting to feel queasy. "He could have been a psychotic child killer!"

"All the more reason to stop him."

Blaine gurgled something unintelligible and wrapped both arms around his lover's shoulders in a vice-like grip. Captain took it without complaint. "What happened?" Blaine asked, when he was calm enough to speak again.

"We had the name of a ship to track down, but we still had no idea which sailor might have done it and no authority to search the ship."

Blaine tensed further, feeling that the captain was prefacing something terrible with his reasoning.

"It was Abe's idea, actually," Kurt stalled.

"What was Abe's idea?"

"To just," Kurt drummed nervous fingers on Blaine's chest, "board them at sea."

"Why would they let you do that?"

"They didn't  _let_  us. We attacked them. At night. In disguise." Kurt grimaced, awaiting the fallout.

"What do you–? Oh my God. You're not pirates!"

"Of course we're pirates!" Kurt glared in offense. "Now," he finished with considerably less heat.

"No, you're not. You're vigilantes! I don't know why I didn't see it before. None of your crew... Almost none of your crew are the mean bastards I would've expected. They're really nice. So nice that it's easy to forget they're supposed to be thieves and murderers. It's all becoming clear now."

Kurt's chin plopped back onto Blaine's chest. He pondered the idea of being called a vigilante and had to admit he didn't hate it. It still made him a criminal, but one who broke the law for moral reasons, for the good of others, not for personal gain.

"We have to tell people," Blaine was excitedly ranting. "We have to let the public know what you're doing and get all those awful Wanted posters taken down. People think you're a pirate!" he shouted, as if this were news.

Kurt automatically shook his head, but Blaine was lost in his own newly discovered world.

"Did you find the kidnapper? I'll bet you taught him a lesson, huh?" He gasped. "That means there was a criminal aboard the Iron Fist, wasn't there! Was it Smythe? You know, I thought there was something off about that man. From the moment we met, I didn't trust him. Did you ever meet someone who just made your skin crawl for no apparent reason? Brrrh," he shuddered.

"Blaine –"

"I'm so proud of you." Blaine craned his neck, grabbing both sides of Captain's head to pull him in for a kiss. "It's much too dangerous, though, what you've been doing. We'll need to find another way, something that will keep you safe and still land the bad guys in jail." He barely slowed long enough to inhale. "They do end up in jail? I can't wait to hear how you manage that. But I mean, what else can you do with them? It's not like you're a killer. I know Captain Clarington ended up dead, but I'm sure it was his own fault. Gah!" he exclaimed. "To think of how many times you've put yourself at risk. If not for pure luck, we might never have met!" Blaine clutched at the man sprawled on top of him, though they couldn't physically get much closer.

"Blaine." Kurt's voice could barely be heard from where his face was now pressed into Blaine's neck. He nuzzled it some, since he was there.

"We should celebrate. I think you deserve a reward for all your good deeds." Blaine cupped the captain's head again, popping it out of its cozy nook. "What would you like? Want to play Pirate and Captive? I could put up a struggle," he whispered, naughty brows wiggling invitingly. "Or maybe you'd rather lie back and let the nice cabin boy take care of all your needs? I promise to follow your orders to the letter, Sir. Or if you really want to relax, you can put yourself entirely in my hands."

"Blaine."

"Tell me, Captain," Blaine's eyes darkened, "have you ever come just from having your balls sucked? I think we could make that happen."

"No, Blaine, I –" Kurt was shaking his head again until the last comment registered. "What?"

Taking advantage of the body gone slack above him, Blaine quickly rolled them over and began trailing kisses along his collarbone, hands smoothing up long arms that didn't surprise him with their strength anymore, over broad shoulders and creamy, alabaster skin.

Their groins aligned and Blaine rocked gently, relishing Captain's guttural moan every bit as much as the rasping slide of cock against cock and the sparks that shot through him when the heads caught on each other.

"What'll it be, Captain?" his voice rumbled from somewhere deep within, like the purr of a contented feline. "Shall I take care of you?" Hands still exploring, Blaine slid further down until he could bend forward and lick a stripe from groin to navel.

Kurt nodded, and kept nodding, and told himself to stop doing that. Blaine was going to take care of him. He didn't need to know the details of what he was agreeing to. With the dark gold of Blaine's eyes shimmering up at him and the warm, moist pink of his tongue dragging along Kurt's lower abdomen, it was bound to be good. So he lay still, limply basking in the incredible feeling of Blaine touching him. "I wonder if you have any idea how handsome you are," he murmured.

The corners of Blaine's mouth tilted up and his tongue dipped low again. Then his fingers tapped lightly against Kurt's knees, which spread far apart with ease and yes, Kurt was right. It was good.


	15. Peace and Too Much Quiet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Non-graphic depiction of Chinese Water Torture.

* * *

The unmistakable lurch of the ship getting underway had Blaine unbearably excited. As much as he'd loved spending so much time alone with the captain for the last week,  _and he had_ , he could really use some sunshine and exercise. He was antsy, to say the least, pacing the cabin restlessly.

It helped some when he stuck his face right into the open porthole, which he had been doing more and more the longer he was cooped up. The view had been the same as ever. Water. But that day, as the ship turned to catch the wind, he could clearly see one side of a charming little cove and a stretch of white sand beach backed by a swath of thick, green vegetation. How he would have loved to see and explore what he imagined to be a beautiful tropical island.

It couldn't happen, though. Not this time. He had to be patient. He'd see this lovely place, Captain's home, the next time they came here, when everyone from the Iron Fist was gone and Blaine had officially joined the Blackbird's crew. A slow smile lit up his face. He'd found his place in the world already. After leaving home with no real plan, only a heart full of hope, here he was, with a brand-new future laid out before him. "Thank you," he said, stepping back to gaze toward the clear blue sky and thinking of the guardian angel or Lady Luck or whoever or whatever it was that had steered him toward the Iron Fist on that fateful day.

He could be a vigilante, he thought. There were an awful lot of people in the world in need of rescuing, and so few trying to save them. Yeah, he could do that.

Behind him, Blaine heard the door open and Captain's footsteps approach. When arms slid around his waist and a chin came to rest on his shoulder, Blaine felt completely at peace. This was home.

"Penny for your thoughts," Kurt said quietly and touched his lips to the pulse point behind Blaine's ear.

"I was thinking how lucky I am." Still smiling, Blaine turned. "How long before I can go topside again?"

"We should be at a good distance by midday."

"Good." Blaine stepped back and led the captain toward the table, pulling out a chair for him. "Then you have time to finish your story."

"Story?"

"Yes," said Blaine, resolute and determined not to become sidetracked again. It would be easier today, without the distraction of acres of ivory skin to get lost in. He walked around to seat himself at the opposite side of the table. "You got as far as telling me that you disguised yourself as a pirate, but I never found out what happened to the children. Had they been killed? Did you catch the criminal? Was he hanged? Please tell me he was hanged."

"They."

Blaine paused. "Excuse me?"

"It wasn't a he. It was a they," Kurt explained.

"How did you figure that out?"

"After we boarded them and subdued the crew, we searched the ship to make sure no one was hiding, and you'll never guess what we found."

"A body?" Blaine looked green.

Kurt's head shook in the negative. "Thankfully, we didn't find a dead body, no. But we did find a brig that was half-full of children."

"No," Blaine gasped in disbelief. "Were they all right?"

"Hungry and filthy, and some of them were ill, but they were alive."

"They must have been so frightened." Blaine's wide eyes stung fiercely.

"Most of them were terrified when they saw us," Kurt agreed, "except for two brave boys, who stood right up to us, ready to protect the others at any cost." A feeling of pride rolled through him at the memory. "They were so young; couldn't have been more than eight or nine."

"Nine," wheezed Blaine. "What the hell were they doing kidnapping a bunch of tiny, helpless children? Those sick, disgusting monsters! Did you kill them? I would have wanted to kill them," he seethed. "Wrap my hands around their throats and squeeze." A calming hand was set across the two that Blaine held out in a choking motion. He jolted, disturbed by the violence of his own reaction. "Sorry," he said on a heavy breath.

"Believe me, I know exactly how you feel."

Lowering his hands to the table, Blaine spread them flat against the wood and slowed his breathing. "What happened?"

"Trout was there. He took off the black scarf covering his face and hair and just squatted right down to talk to them while the rest of us spread out to find the keys. He told them very gently that we were sent by their parents to find them and bring them home. It wasn't true, of course, but it went a long way toward easing their fear. Trout's kind of amazing with children."

The knot in Blaine's stomach began to ease. "They all got home safe?"

About to say 'yes,' Kurt's innate and sometimes troublesome honesty prevented him, and he was unable to answer except with a qualified, "Almost."

"What does that mean?" The knot tightened again.

"The two boys I told you about?" He waited for Blaine's nod to continue. "As it turned out, they didn't have homes or families. They'd been living on the streets." Kurt's lashes swept down and he looked at his hands twisting together on the table. "They had run away from an orphanage and were more afraid of being sent back there than they were of us."

Blaine reached out to cup Captain's nervous fingers under his own. "What happened to them?"

"They didn't want to go back," Kurt said again, through old, familiar pangs of guilt.

"I know. It's okay, you can tell me," Blaine comforted. "Where did they go?"

"Nowhere," Kurt admitted. "They asked to stay with us."

Blaine stared in shock. "They asked – and you let them? You mean raised them yourself?"

Kurt finally looked up, mouth opening on a defensive retort that didn't make it past his lips. He had never thought of it as raising them, more as taking them under his wing. "They swore they would only escape from the orphanage again, and we couldn't send them back to live in the street," he answered warily.

Blaine huffed a laugh, shaking his head because he was constantly underestimating this man. "Of course you couldn't," he said under his breath, "so you... took them home to your father?" Which was evidently the wrong thing to say, because Captain yanked his hands away, looking offended.

"Don't be ridiculous. Those boys aren't my father's responsibility. They're mine."

"They are? Present tense?"

"Billy and Alex are members of this crew." Kurt shot him a defensive glare.

Feeling slow-witted, Blaine slapped the table. "Billy and Alex!" he shouted. "I wondered how boys their age came to be working on a pirate ship," he laughed, then leaned forward and caught Captain's hands in his again, looking earnest. "You've done a wonderful job with them. They're both good boys and it's clear they're happy here."

The words were a salve to Kurt's uneasy conscience. He smiled tremulously.

"What happened to the rest of them?" asked Blaine.

Kurt cleared his throat, blinking rapidly. "Dropped off at the nearest port that was missing one them."

"Did you walk them all up to the magistrate's door and say, 'Here they are?'"

Chuckling, Kurt shook his head no. "They walked themselves up to a big farmhouse outside of town, while we watched from a distance. Whether they said, 'Here we are,' or not, I don't know. Either way, I'm sure the farmer was surprised to see them."

"And the kidnappers?"

"We left them on the ship," he said.

Blaine's brows drew together in confused dismay. "You let them go?" His head jerked quickly from side to side, trying to dislodge the awful words ringing in his ears.

"They didn't go anywhere. We left them the ship, but not before we had searched it top to bottom. We took their small boats, weapons, black powder, money," Kurt's fingers popped up one by one, ticking off the items, "and anything else of value we could find, including the sails." He grinned. "Anything not worth taking, like clothes and linens, we tossed overboard."

"Ha!" Blaine burst out. "You threw their spare clothing into the sea?"

Kurt's smile turned devilish. "The clothes on their backs were worthless too," he said, and had to wait a minute for Blaine to stop laughing.

"That's priceless! I wish I could have seen that," said Blaine when he could speak again.

"You didn't miss anything."

The captain's scrunched up moue of disgust nearly sent Blaine into fresh peals before he caught himself. "Stop! Stop," he begged, holding a hand in the air. "Okay," he panted through the continuing urge to giggle. "Okay, be serious now," he ordered the both of them, though Captain looked unrepentant. "I'm sure you didn't merely strip them and call it even. You must have turned them in to stand trial. Yes?"

After a short inner debate, Kurt relented and finished his story, despite the fun of watching Blaine curl in on himself with belly laughs. "Yes, in a way, I suppose we did. We gave the children the ship's logs, where the captain had helpfully recorded all the dates and places they had 'picked up cargo,' as he called it, and a letter with the ship's location. I'm sure it was only a day or two before they were found, locked in their own brig. Not a stitch of clothing in sight."

Blaine heaved a sigh of relief. "I still don't understand what they hoped to gain, though. Why steal children from families too poor to buy them back?"

Kurt's smile faded away. "There are others who would buy them."

"What?" asked Blaine, uncomprehending.

"There are places where children are worth a great deal," hinted Kurt. "I'd rather not think about what happens after they're purchased."

"Oh, no. No." Blaine was filled with the horror of the truly innocent. "That can't be true?" He turned hopeful eyes on the captain, waiting for his terrible assumptions to be denied.

"I wish it weren't."

It was quiet after that, both men drifting along in their own thoughts until something changed. A faint, distant sound that came from somewhere in the belly of the ship and erupted upward with the power and swiftness of a storm, a shout repeated, man by man, until the whole ship had heard the cry.

"Fire! Fire!"

The shock must have slowed Blaine's reaction, he would later think, because he had time to experience a flash of panic before jumping to his feet. Captain was halfway to the door, already, flinging it open so hard it bounced back and hit Blaine, who had followed without a second thought. He threw the door wide again and ran after him, up the stairs and onto the deck where everything felt frighteningly familiar, except this time the enemy wasn't a distant, potential threat. It was a killer and it was right there on the ship.

They kept moving, running, following the shouts and the rush of men. It led them down a hatch that Blaine knew well, and the panic flared again in his chest. 'No,' he told himself as they ran. 'No, it can't be.' He refused to believe his own ears or the sight of men lining up in the passageway in some sort of preordained order. As they ran past, he drowned out the shouts for water, the sounds of casks rolling behind him, and the incoherent yelling up ahead.

By the time they tore into the brig, nearly knocking men down in their haste, smoke had begun to billow up to the ceiling and shouts were interspersed with coughs. Finn stood in the middle of the room, directing water buckets, and shouting at the top of his lungs to be heard over the prisoners. Kurt ran straight for him, grabbing an arm to sling himself around the larger man until they were face to face. He didn't have to say a word before Finn, looking nearly faint with gratitude, began to report.

"The men are getting into position!" he still had to yell to be heard, though inches from the captain's face. "We'll stop it from spreading, but what about the prisoners?!"

Kurt squeezed his brother's shoulders. "I'll take care of them!" he yelled back. "More water is on the way!" Finn nodded and went back to work. Kurt looked around wildly, his hands flying to the sash at his waist, which he untied and yanked off. A few feet away, men were cracking open barrels of seawater and he rushed toward them, shoving his way through to dunk his hand, sash and all, into a barrel and bring it out dripping. A second later, he was pressing it to Finn's face, gesturing for him to cover his nose and mouth as the smoke thickened.

Blaine, meanwhile, was taking in the madness around them. He couldn't see open flames, but the smoke continued to build in horrifying gray layers over men's heads, and drift into their lungs, pushing aside the clean, breathable air. The cells were locked and crowded with men screaming to get out. He ran to one of the sailors he recognized as a guard, talking into his ear and taking his place in the bucket line, so the man could push his way over to the captain, who Blaine had said was looking for him.

When Kurt saw the guard next to him, he didn't question it, only leaned in to be heard. "Get the prisoners out. Hurry! Main deck!" He'd just given the man a push toward the nearest cell when Davidson and Puck appeared out of the haze, as if they'd somehow known they were needed next. "Puck! Thank God. You two help get the prisoners topside," he began, and Davidson immediately opened his mouth to argue.

"Captain, you can't –!"

It was always the same with him, the sailor was determined to stop Kurt from putting himself into any perceived danger, to take his place if necessary. Kurt cut him off, knowing full well, as every man present should, that they had no time. "Davidson!" he yelled in the man's face, shutting him up before he could get out another word of dissent. "Get those men topside! Keep them together and put them face down on the deck. That's an order!" Kurt turned to Puck, who stood passively, unruffled as ever. "Get Cook, Billy, Alex, Abe, anyone who can be spared. Get them armed and put them on guard duty. I don't know what the hell happened down here, but I'm not taking any chances. Get a head count as soon as you can. I'm depending on you both." Davidson's mulish expression softened only slightly, but he nevertheless gave a short nod and turned away.

The guards had already begun to unlock the cells, and men were stumbling toward the exit, where Davidson manhandled them through behind Puck with sharp orders to follow the quartermaster and not cause any trouble. Kurt put them out of his mind for the moment, suddenly realizing that Blaine wasn't beside him. Fear spiked through his blood as he looked frantically around. Seeing him safe, standing with Kurt's crew, working alongside them as if he belonged there made Kurt feel dizzy with relief, but there was no time for that either.

He pushed through the throng of escaping captives back to Finn's side to make himself useful. Most of the flames had been doused. But in one area, the oil of a broken lantern had splattered across the plank floor and continued to burn. Kurt ducked into an empty cell and snatched up every blanket he could see, calling for someone to help. Soon after, the last of the fire was smothered under a heavy mass of quilts that were then thoroughly drenched. The sailors, with their empty buckets, stood watching warily, half expecting the fire to leap back out and engulf them.

Once they were sure the fire wouldn't reignite, Kurt ordered everyone out and, for once, instructed that all hatches be left open. "Absolutely no one is allowed to return here before nightfall. No exceptions," he told Finn through a pained, scratchy throat, waving ineffectually at the haze around his head and squinting against the burn in his eyes. It was past time to leave.

* * *

Up on the main deck, Kurt heard the raised voices of several men before he could see them. A fight. Just what he needed. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Get your filthy hands off me, you cretin."

"What the hell did you call me, you scrawny little shit?"

"I called you a cretin. It means: One who is too stupid to know the meaning of the word 'cretin.'"

"Davidson, wait! Mick, grab his other arm!"

Recognizing the last voice as Trout's, Kurt picked up speed and charged forward toward a wall of men, running into the backs of two of his crew and shoving between them.

There before him was a livid looking Davidson, being prevented by Trout and Mick, barely, from attacking the former first mate of the Iron Fist. Kurt couldn't think of his name off the top of his head, but some recollection of that high and mighty sneer was coming back to him.

A dozen or so other prisoners stood nearby, along with the entirety of Kurt's crew, as he and Finn were the last to leave the brig. The only person missing was Finn himself, who had gone straight to his cabin to check on the ladies and assure them of their safety. All the other captives were prone on the deck, belly down, with their hands clasped behind their backs and smoke-blackened faces turned toward the fracas. All but one, whose eyes were trained fixedly on Kurt. He started at the sight of Blaine on the floor, very nearly forgetting about the disturbance taking place right in front of him. His lover gave a small shake of the head and a tender smile that said he was fine, not to worry.

It wasn't quite enough to stop Kurt's chest from constricting, or his narrowed eyes from turning on Davidson. Kurt felt certain that his most devoted, yet troublesome officer was responsible for Blaine's present position. He would have words with his gunner later, after the more immediate problem was taken care of. "What is going on here?" he demanded in a voice that cut through the background noise and brought all eyes to his cold, hard visage. Silence fell like a curtain around them. It had been weeks since anyone had seen the old Captain Black make an appearance, or heard the voice that slipped into a lower register when he was truly angry. His crew stood a little straighter, mouths shut and expressions going as blank as their leader's, as if the last several weeks had never happened; no friendships forged, no bonds created between two groups of sailors who loved the sea.

While the others stopped moving, Doc continued to work methodically, checking both crews for anyone who might be injured, and shaking his head at the pointless commotion. Off to the side, Cook rolled her eyes and prayed for patience. Next to her, Billy and Alex stood looking confused and uncomfortable, each cradling a pistol and taking care to aim it at no one. The ones least affected were the combatants. Davidson's struggles against his shipmates had eased slightly, but his antagonist merely crooked an unimpressed brow at Kurt, his sneer going from conceited to contemptuous.

"Captain." Trout slumped a little in gratitude at Kurt's timing, but didn't loosen his grip at all. "We were trying to get to the bottom of what happened below. Some are claiming that Smythe here caused the fire by throwing something at a lantern."

A spark of amusement and, if Kurt wasn't mistaken, pride lit the first officer's,  _Smythe's_ , deliberately bored and haughty face. "Is that so?" Kurt's calm reply caused the pride to trickle away, to be replaced by small signs of nervousness the man couldn't quite hide. "Did you start that fire, Mr. Smythe?"

For a moment, Smythe's glance flickered across the line of men standing shoulder to shoulder behind Kurt, but he stayed silent, pointedly lifting his chin and looking down his nose.

"You're damn right he did," someone yelled. Kurt couldn't tell who it was. The accusation seemed to have come from one of the prisoners.

"It doesn't matter what you do or where you go," Smythe claimed, looking directly at Kurt and raising his voice in a show of bravado. "You're a dead man. I will kill you, one way or another."

"Kill us all, you mean!" shouted another of Smythe's former crew, setting them all off again and ending the short-lived quiet. Dozens of men started yelling and shoving at once. It was the beginning of an all out brawl with Smythe in the middle, screeching insults and threatening everyone who dared stand up to him.

"Smythe!" shouted a tall, muscular blond, as large as Davidson, but without the perpetual sour expression. Kurt recognized him as one of the harder working prisoners he'd seen. Smythe spun, ready to spew more vitriol at the newcomer. Except he wasn't given the chance. A boulder-like fist took him by surprise, knocking him senseless to the floor. A round of loud, surprised laughter followed, accompanied by back-slapping and cheers from both sides.

Finn chose that moment to return, stepping up to his brother's side and elbowing him lightly. "What the hell?" he said, and if Kurt weren't so upset over what he had to do next, he might have laughed. He'd put it off as long as he could, though. That much was obvious. It was time to find out the truth.

"Mr. Finley." It came out as barely more than a whisper, unheard by any but Finn, whose focus shifted to him instantly.

He placed a hand on Kurt's arm, looking down at him with concern. "Are you all right? What happened?"

The cacophony began to subside when some of Kurt's crew realized there was a new problem, though none of them knew what it could be. Davidson noticed immediately, of course, and scowled menacingly, doing a quick search of the crowd for any further sign of trouble and settling on the prisoners who remained standing when nothing else presented itself.

"Get down, all of you," he barked the orders he'd been given earlier. One hand gestured at the captives and the other hovered over the butt of his pistol. Everything went quiet again, and no one moved. "Face down on the deck with the rest of them. Now!"

The standing captives weren't any happier with the order than they were with the tone in which it was given. They glanced at each other, communicating silently, until Johnny shrugged and found himself a spot to lie down. He ignored the fact that the others' hands were behind their backs and folded his own arms under his head. Closing his eyes and letting loose a wide yawn, he made himself comfortable, fully prepared to enjoy a nap in the breeze. That was good enough for the others. They followed suit, sprawling across the deck wherever there was an open space. Thad fluttered his eyelashes and waved his fingertips at Davidson before smacking his lips and grinning lazily. He hadn't had a breath of fresh air in a solid week. An afternoon nap under the billowing sails sounded just about perfect now that he thought about it.

"Davidson," said Kurt, grabbing the sailor's attention before he could build up a new head of steam over nothing. The officer walked over quickly, presenting himself like a soldier. Kurt had long ago accepted it as one of the man's idiosyncrasies. "Trout. Jack," he summoned the others closer, delaying the inevitable for as long as he could, giving himself precious seconds to bury his anxiety and hide behind his trusty pirate mask.

"Take Smythe to the water table. Prepare him for interrogation. There are some things I'd like to ask him." Kurt kept his voice steady. He could feel the weight of many stares as he spoke, from those who understood exactly what he was saying, and those who hadn't a clue, Blaine included. "Puck. Mr. Finley," he smoothly changed tack. If one didn't know better, one might think he did this every day; that he felt nothing when ordering his men to strap a prisoner into a torture device for questioning. "Split the men into teams. Those who aren't needed on guard duty here will inspect every space that abuts the brig. Have them check for damage and residual heat, and open all hatches to clear the smoke, then report to you at the helm. No one is to enter the brig itself. Understood?"

"Aye, sir," Puck answered when Finn stood gawping at Kurt as if he'd never seen him before. Taking a handful of Finn's shirtsleeve, he dragged his friend away to get the men started on their task. None of them could relax, after all, until they were certain the ship was safe. They no longer had a spare in tow, so the farther they got from land – and their island was already well out of sight – the less likely they would be to survive a catastrophe at sea. No, Puck had no heartache with the captain's plans for Smythe. On the contrary, he envied his brother the job of strapping him down good and tight.

"Mick," Kurt continued to dole out orders regardless of his personal issues. This was no time to curl up in the fetal position and reflect on all the other things he could have done with his life. "You climb aloft with Pepe and scan for any sign that the smoke has drawn unwanted attention." Mick was nodding his head, knowing his orders before they were spoken.

"Anderson," Kurt called next, because the sight of him lying helpless on the floor was too much, and Kurt was feeling very fragile already. He really couldn't bear any more just then. Simply watching Blaine stand up and come closer made it easier for Kurt to breathe in and out.

"Yes, Captain?" Blaine kept a respectable distance between them, however much he wanted to take his lover into his arms and thank all the stars that he was safe. Rarely had he been so afraid as when he'd seen the captain disappear deeper into the smoky brig, heading straight for the fire.

Kurt stood like a lump, staring mutely and completely unable to come up with a plausible excuse for summoning his cabin boy. That is until he was rescued by Lauren, who was always there when he needed her, and sometimes when he didn't.

"You're with me, Anderson," she announced imperiously, planting herself next to Kurt, arms crossed over her chest and daring any man to question her. "Billy! Alex!" she called, frowning when they dashed to her side. "What in blazes are you two still doing with those guns? Lock those things away and get some drinking water for these men, on the double. Then get yourselves to the galley. Lunch is half an hour behind schedule already. I take it meals will be served on the main deck today, Captain?" she looked at Kurt, pursing her lips when she saw him fighting back a teary smile.

"Yes, Cook. Thank you."  _I owe you one_.

 _I'll put it on your tab_ , her gaze clearly informed him.  _Your very extensive tab._

Kurt cleared his parched throat. Surely he had time for a cup of tea before he had to think about the upcoming unpleasantness. "Will you need any more help?"

"Absolutely," she confirmed, smirking when Johnny's head popped up like a hound scenting a rabbit. "Soon as the food's ready, I'll take half a dozen helpers to haul it up here. Elsewise, people are going to get awfully hungry waiting on  _me_  to carry it."

"I'm sure we can find some volunteers," Kurt assured her.

* * *

Blaine jumped up from his chair for the second time that day when he heard Captain's footsteps in the passageway. Even his walk sounded tired. Blaine opened the door as the other man reached it and pulled him inside, straight into his embrace. He buried his face in a neck that was no less sweet for smelling of smoke and sweat. "Captain," he mumbled, sighing when long arms wrapped around him. Then a disturbing sound disrupted his happiness. It was a sob, muffled against his body, but definitely a sob. "Captain?" he said again. He didn't know what to think. What to do. So, he held on.

His slide into a breakdown was steep and inevitable. Kurt had been teetering on the edge for hours and was powerless to stop it now. Here in this room, with this man, he could weep shamelessly. And he did, hardly aware of being led across the floor to the bed, since Blaine's hold on him didn't loosen. There was no resistance from him when Blaine eased him backwards to sit, then lie down, curled up together. He was only distantly aware of the hand stroking his hair or the soft murmurs near his ear. Before he could be soothed, he needed to cry, to get it out of his system.

Tears prickled Blaine's eyes as he held the captain close, cuddling the man to his chest. He was beginning to fear that someone had died. He couldn't think of any other reason for such behavior.

"Shhh," Blaine whispered later between slow kisses to his lover's temple, his forehead and the dampness of his cheek. "Honey, please talk to me."

Kurt's tears were drying at last, his lungs sucking in short, gulping breaths. The feel of Blaine's soft lips against his skin was a comfort, and the endearment was almost enough to make him want to smile. He brought up a hand to wipe at his wet, messy face. The thought of how he must look was too terrible to contemplate, so he didn't. He did manage to get out a hoarse, "Thank you," and a puff of air blew across his face in response. It wasn't a snort so much as just the gut reaction of someone who'd spent the last half-hour being cried on and squeezed like a favored old pillow.

Blaine kissed the top of his head again, lips pressed firmly to his scalp until he felt able to speak. "Are you ready to tell me what happened?"

Kurt was silent, resting on Blaine's chest and wiping his sleeve across his face with a grimace.

"Here. Wait a minute." Blaine disentangled himself and maneuvered his way out of bed to retrieve a stack of neatly folded cloths. He dampened one and sat on the side of the bed to slowly wash Captain's face, dabbing gently around the normally lovely blue eyes that were now clouded with pain and vulnerability.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Blaine asked, handing over a dry handkerchief for Captain's sniffling nose.

It was hard to look Blaine in the eye, but a part of Kurt did want to tell him what had happened. He felt the need to confess. He plucked nervously at a clean cloth after wiping his nose and tossing the soiled one away, but in the end, he nodded.

"Okay. First, let's get you out of these dirty clothes." Blaine took charge of removing the previously white shirt, now stained with soot and sweat, and probably ruined.

Doing something as normal as cleaning up made Kurt feel immeasurably better for whatever reason, and he began to relax, letting Blaine undress him and wipe his skin down with a wet cloth.

Understanding that whatever had upset the captain must be difficult to say, Blaine took his time and kept his gaze on the patches of skin he was cleaning. "Has someone been hurt?" he started, going off his initial assumption. From the corner of his eye he saw the negative shake of a head.

"Is this about the fire, then?"

"Not really. Though, it's sort of mixed up in all of this," Kurt said and, while he was still feeling guilty and sad, he was no longer on the verge of more tears.

"Mixed up in all of what?" Finishing with Captain's torso, Blaine began unfastening his pants.

"The Iron Fist. Remember when you asked me if there was a criminal aboard? Well there was. It was Captain Clarington.

Blaine looked up with surprise. "I wasn't expecting that. What was his crime?"

"He was a smuggler."

Blaine scoffed. "Surely half of all merchant ships have taken up smuggling, what with all the taxes and embargoes against honest businessmen."

"That's true, and I'm not in any position to judge them. But Clarington had his own way of driving up profits, and people who were unfortunate enough to do business with him would shortly find themselves robbed or worse."

"I don't understand," said Blaine. "He would sell his cargo only to steal it back?"

"No. He would purchase his cargo and then go back to retrieve the money he'd paid. I think he might have been doing it for years, hiring locals for the dirty work and unconcerned with whether or not his victims survived the robberies. He might have even preferred that they not survive to spread tales, I don't know. A smuggler couldn't go before the magistrate and claim that the money he had received for selling illegal goods was stolen from him, but he would definitely want revenge."

Blaine nodded. "You say he wasn't doing his own dirty work. Wouldn't his hired help simply take the money and run?"

"I'm sure they would have. No honor amongst thieves and all that. I believe that Clarington was always present, even if he wasn't the one holding a gun to the victim's head."

"How do you know these things?"

Kurt blushed warmly. "I have my own hired help," he admitted, "although, like Clarington's men, they don't know who's paying them."

"How's that?"

"After that first incident with the children, I decided to do some digging, root out any others who might be doing something similar. We tried doing it ourselves at first, Finley, Abe, Trout and I, but it was impossible. We would only pick up random bits of gossip in port-side taverns. There is no better source of gossip than a bunch of drunken sailors," Kurt told him in all seriousness.

Blaine grinned from the foot of the bed where he was sponging the day's grime from long, graceful legs. "What do they gossip about?"

"Mostly about the goings on aboard their own ships. They also talk a lot about women." Kurt pulled a face that made Blaine laugh. "Would you believe that sailors actually tell each other which doxies they've had in various ports, and what they've done with them? In great detail." More face pulling. "They talk about women the way you or I might discuss where to find the best Irish stew; which ones are bland but cheap, and which ones should be sampled by everyone."

"That's disgusting." Blaine made a face of his own. "So... you've never, uh, sampled any yourself?"

Kurt's surprise was immediate and genuine. "Doxies?"

"Well, women, I guess."

"Oh. No, I've never had the urge. Honestly, I'm not sure I could if I tried." He glanced downward, where his cock lay partially erect for no other reason than that Blaine was touching him. "Have you?"

"Me? No. But I used to think I could, someday; that I'd have no other choice."

"You can get hard for a woman then?" Kurt felt oddly betrayed. His hand twitched a corner of the bed linens closer to his body.

"Not now," Blaine exclaimed, as if the physical impossibility of it was perfectly obvious. "But when I was a randy youth, walking around with perpetual wood in my breeches, it didn't seem so unthinkable."

The tense lines around Kurt's mouth faded into a teasing curve of lips. "You used to be  _more_  randy than you are now?"

"I'll have you know my cock was a perfect gentleman before I met you."

"Thank heaven those days are over."

"They certainly are. But enough about my dick – for now. What had you so distressed earlier? It couldn't have been Clarington."

"It wasn't, not directly."

"Indirectly?"

"Yes and no."

Blaine sighed. "If you don't want to tell me, just say so."

"I'm sorry. Let me start again."

"Please."

"Have you ever been tortured, Blaine?"

"Tortured! Of course not. Why would you ask that? Has someone been tortured today?" Blaine's startled, joking question was met with silence and the downward cast of Captain's pained face. "Oh." He blinked owlishly. What could he say to something like that, 'How was it?' Blaine's image of this pirate-who-wasn't-a-pirate was taking yet another turn. This time not for the better.

"I..." Kurt hardly knew how to explain his actions, if they could be explained. He sat up and crossed his legs, back against the headboard, and tugged a sheet across his lap for modesty's sake. "I have this – thing. A machine, you might call it, or maybe not. It's more of a contraption, really. I took it from someone else's ship. Don't ask. We didn't even know what it was at the time, but we found out later." He let out a short, self-deprecating laugh. "I didn't believe it. It doesn't look like much at all, maybe a surgeon's table, with straps for the limbs, torso and head. I had thought that's what it was, a surgeon's table. Except, there's a stand hanging over it, an odd looking device with a bowl, and when you fill it with water it drips slowly onto the table. Dripping water. That's it." He looked up. "It doesn't sound like torture, does it? But it is. It truly is."

Kurt's hands were spread out, palm up in his lap as if he were pleading innocence. His fists clenched. He was far from innocent. He had known exactly what he was doing. "I've never used it on anyone else before," he said.

"Anyone else?" Blaine repeated in a whisper.

"I tried it once. On myself, I mean. I asked to be put in there and left alone for two hours after we found out what the table was for. Two hours is nothing, I thought." Kurt rubbed at his forehead. He could still feel the relentless drip, the helplessness of being strapped down, unable to turn his head, to make the drops hit a different spot. There were still times when he had to go to the mirror and check his reflection, to reassure himself that he was fine, that there was no broken skin, no hole in his skull. "I was such an idiot."

"Why would you do that?"

"If I was ever going to use it, I had to know exactly what it would do to a person. I thought it might be a good way to get answers. Confessions. But it was so much worse than I had expected that I've avoided using it on anyone."

"Until today," said Blaine.

"Until today," Kurt affirmed.

"Smythe?"

"Yes." Kurt was staring down at his hands again. "Abe has been studying Clarington's log books for the past week, the real ones, but it wasn't clear who else might have been aware of his crimes, or possibly helping to commit them. My officers are convinced that none of the crewmen were involved. Not one of them seemed to have any idea what was hidden aboard the Iron Fist. The only person who has shown any signs of panic over its loss was–"

"Smythe," Blaine said again, beginning to understand.

"Right. Smythe wanted the ship back at any cost. He proved it today when he started that fire. He must have realized we had left the Iron Fist behind and he was trying to get us to go back."

"What was on the ship that was so important?"

"Coin. A hoard of Portuguese gold and Spanish pieces-of-eight." Kurt watched for Blaine's reaction, but he only looked puzzled.

"That's it? Smythe risked his life, all our lives, for money?"

Kurt shrugged. "A lot of men do."

"If he knew about the money, then he must have been helping Clarington," Blaine speculated. "What did he say when you questioned him? Did the water make him confess?" He winced at his own question. It seemed heartless to even  _ask_  if torturing a man had loosened his tongue, let alone to hope it had.

"To be honest," Kurt fidgeted, straightening the sheet across his lap, "he wasn't in there very long. Not long enough to be babbling confessions at any rate." What Smythe  _had_  said were not things Kurt would repeat. His time on the table had only induced the man to curse and threaten Kurt with all the violence he could muster. When that didn't work, he'd gone on to threaten the rest of the Blackbird's crew, swearing to see every last one of them hang. It was nothing they hadn't heard before. But when Blaine's name had spilled from Smythe's vicious mouth, it was all Kurt could do to retain his blank expression. Yet something must have given him away; the clenching of his jaw or the harshness of an indrawn breath. Smythe had begun throwing out wild accusations, calling Blaine a spy, saying he'd been a pirate all along and had lured the Iron Fist into capture, which, if it were true, would be a death sentence for Blaine.

"I'm sorry. I know you wanted answers." Blaine reached out to place a gentle hand on Captain's arm. "But I'm glad you didn't leave him there for too long. You're a good man."

It wasn't true, of course, Blaine being a pirate. That's what Kurt had to keep in mind. Smythe's accusations were completely unfounded and would be easy to disprove. Blaine would not be hanged. Kurt would sooner hand himself over than let that happen. "Can we not talk about it anymore?" he said, fiddling with the linens and doing his best to hold fresh tears at bay.

"Of course." Blaine moved closer, wrapping the captain in a warm, comforting embrace. "Are you tired? Would you like to sleep for a while?" he asked, stroking a hand slowly along Captain's bare back and rubbing at tight, knotted muscles.

Kurt's head was shaking, his eyes clenched shut. "Can we just hold each other?"

Blaine's breath caught in his throat. He wanted nothing more than to do that for the rest of his life. "Yes." He nudged his lover to scoot down and lie back with him again. Holding him, stroking his silken skin, placing soft kisses along his jaw, Blaine knew what he needed to do. He'd be the one to take charge this time, to make his partner feel loved and wanted and cared for. He would trail worshipful hands and lips over Captain's lax body. He would make sweet love to him until he forgot everything outside of this room.

Kurt sighed with pleasure, placing himself entirely in Blaine's hands. No one had ever made him feel so trusting and vulnerable. It didn't feel strange, as he'd subconsciously feared. It felt completely natural to twine his calves around Blaine's thighs and clamp his hands onto sculpted shoulders. He used his strength to pull Blaine deep, to meet every thrust tirelessly and to kiss him fiercely. And when fingers circled him and stroked in time with their motions, his feet slammed back to the mattress and his bowed body raised them both off the bed with the waves of intense satisfaction that pulsed through him.

He could only hope he'd given Blaine half as much pleasure as he had felt. Judging by the contented smile on his lips as Blaine drifted to sleep later on, he had.

Kurt would give anything in the world to make sure that smile lasted a lifetime.

* * *

Blaine woke up happier than he could ever remember being. He was in love.

How long had he waited to meet a man who could make him feel this way? As young as he still was, just knowing that it might never happen had made it seem like an eternity. Now it had happened. He had met the person he would spend the rest of his life with. The world was theirs, and life was suddenly more precious than he'd ever imagined.

His unbridled happiness lasted for approximately five hours.

It wasn't unusual to wake up alone. He thought nothing of it as he sprawled languidly across their bed, stretching and smiling to the heavens.

Neither was being fetched by Alex anything to rouse concern. His love, after all, was the captain of the ship. He was as important and busy as he was handsome and wonderful. Blaine opened the door to Alex wearing the widest of grins and in the best of spirits.

Breakfasting with Cook and the boys was a pleasure. Their non-stop banter never failed to entertain, and Blaine knew that Captain's slender, supple frame didn't require three full meals every day, much as it might pain the cook to admit it.

He was only too glad to help prepare and deliver breakfast to his old friends after his own quick meal. They were back in the brig after it had been thoroughly aired and cleaned. Blaine was eager to see for himself that all was well. Smythe would not be there, Billy had mentioned. He'd been moved into a more secure and solitary confinement. All the more reason for Blaine to look forward to a visit.

Once he had finished serving the men, it was very kind of the guard to open his old cell and let him in to talk to the others. It was too long since he'd sat and chatted with Johnny, Thad and the others. He hardly noticed when Cook and the boys left, or when Davidson came in to speak to the guards. There was nothing unusual in hearing that one raise his voice.

No, it wasn't until Blaine and his friends had been catching up for quite a while and their conversation had begun to wane that it occurred to him he'd soon be missed upstairs. He said his goodbyes, explaining that he would be expected to finish his chores before serving the captain his midday meal, and called to the guards.

When the guards claimed that they were unable to let him out at his own request, he laughed at the misunderstanding and suggested they send a message to Captain Black before a manhunt was put into effect for his missing cabin boy. Then he sat down with his friends again to wait.

Surprisingly, he had to wait until lunch. By that time, he was certain that Captain would be returning to their cabin at any moment and not know where he was. He didn't want to be the cause of worry or stress.

"He's pacing," Johnny commented to his cellmates. "I'd forgotten about the pacing. Do you suppose the house he grew up in has shiny paths worn into all the floors?"

Blaine might have responded to the quip if the door hadn't opened at that moment. In came Billy, Alex, and a few other crewmen, laden with food and supplies. Cook was nowhere to be seen.

"Billy! Alex!" Blaine stage-whispered, clinging to the bars of the cell he had most certainly not missed. The boys glanced at him and then each other, their expressions unreadable. Some type of silent communication must have taken place, because Billy sighed resignedly and walked slowly over to Blaine after putting his things down.

"Is the captain all right?" was the first thing Blaine needed to know. "Does he know where I've been all morning? The guards wouldn't let me out to go back to his cabin. Will you have a word with them please? Captain will be worried sick when he finds me gone."

Billy stared down at his shoes and scuffed his feet.

"Billy? Did you hear me?"

"I did," he mumbled.

"Well? Why are you just standing there? Look at me."

It was a long, unhappy face that reluctantly raised itself to be seen. "How are yeh keepin'?" he asked, apropos of nothing.

"What? Billy, get me out of here. Captain doesn't know I'm stuck down here."

"Aye, he knows."

The air around Blaine's head must have grown very thin. He was hearing things. "He doesn't," Blaine's faint voice tried to insist.

"He does." Billy sighed and stepped closer, placing his own hands on the bars near Blaine's. He lowered his voice and raised sympathetic eyes. "Cap'n's after tellin' Cook this morning that there've been talk." His voice dropped even further to barely a whisper. "He's thinking you'll be labeled a traitor lest he puts yeh back where the others can see yeh ain't one of us."

"No," Blaine choked back. "He – he couldn't."

"Aye. 'Tis sorry I am, but there ya have it. Cap'n's orders." He glanced surreptitiously left and right. "I'm thinkin' it's something that bastard said to 'im yesterday what did it."

"Who, Smythe?"

"Yeah, that one. May the cat eat him and may the devil eat the cat!" he spat.

Davidson had entered while they talked, and he charged over like a bulldog. "Boy! Quit gossiping like a woman and get to work." He glared down at the back of Billy's head, who didn't cower at all, Blaine was proud to see. Captain was raising a fine young man.

"Yes, sir," Billy said, rolling his eyes where Davidson couldn't see him. "I expect Cook will be along later," he said to Blaine, and winked before walking away without so much as a glance at his superior officer.

Davidson turned his glare on Blaine next, adding a hint of smug satisfaction. In return, Blaine shaped his lips into a tight smile and spoke a few quiet words. "How are you, Mr. Davidson? I trust you slept well last night? I know I did."

A dull red flush crept up the sailor's thick neck and into his face. "You watch your tongue or I'll cut it out of your mouth."

Blaine's brows merely lifted in a silent, innocent query. He could have responded with a quip about where his tongue had been, adding a sprinkle of salt to the wound, if his relationship with the captain weren't far more important to him than any petty revenge.

Davidson stalked away, prompting Blaine's friends to join him at the front of the cell and await their lunch with considerably more patience than they had shown in the past. Johnny's arm dropped heavily onto Blaine's shoulders. "I don't know what you said to piss him off, but keep up the good work." Thad, Nick and Trent also showed their support with a punch to the arm, a pat on the back and a shy laugh, respectively. Blaine had missed them.

* * *

Morning found him lying awake in his prison cell after a long, lonely night of obsessing over everything and anything he might have said or done to get himself banished. Unfortunately, only one thing stood out in his mind. And it preyed on his deepest insecurities.

What if, in the heat of the moment, he had blurted out his feelings? Their last night together was a muddle of heat and touch and raw emotion. Blaine didn't remember saying it aloud, but it was entirely possible he had told Captain he loved him. Nothing had ever been said between them about the possibility of a future together. He had made assumptions based upon a purely physical relationship.

What if he had never been anything more than a willing bed partner to the captain? A convenience? Was it really possible that he had been used for sex? The tender looks and soft caresses couldn't have meant nothing, surely. If it was only sex, would the captain have held him so lovingly all night, every night? Everything within him screamed, 'No!' But the truth was, Blaine didn't know. They had never talked about it.

Still, Blaine trusted his instincts. They had never let him down before, and right now they were heartily rejecting the possibility that Captain didn't care for him at all. No. That was the fear talking. Something else had to be behind this. Blaine just needed to find out what. And he had a good idea of where to start.

Contrary to Billy's prediction, Cook hadn't put in an appearance the day before. She didn't come to the brig again until breakfast. She looked more agitated than Blaine had ever seen her, and this was the same woman who'd looked him dead in the eye and threatened to make a stew of him.

Sure, it sounded like an idle threat  _now_ , but at the time, he'd been genuinely alarmed for the safety of his dangly bits. His balls had tried to crawl right up inside his gut.

These days, he liked to think of her as a friend. Hopefully, a friend with some answers. He rose from the hard floor, where his tired body had tossed and turned all night. Every part of him ached and his temples were throbbing, but he nonetheless dragged himself to the front of the cell to wait. He knew that if anyone had talked to Captain about him, it would have been Cook.

Food was doled out quickly and efficiently while Blaine watched. He barely registered being given a bowl of something or other before handing it off distractedly. Johnny whooped with delight and took his two-man portion over to a corner where he could sit and enjoy the bounty.

Blaine's gaze stayed firmly on the cook, who didn't approach him until the others were busy eating and talking amongst themselves.

"You look like hell. Did you sleep at all last night?"

God love her, Blaine actually cracked half a smile. "Do you know what's going on?" he asked, abandoning small talk and manners.

Lauren glanced around, hesitating, choosing her words. "No one's talking, but I have my suspicions."

"I need to see him," Blaine begged in a hoarse whisper, the fear that lurked just beneath his surface rearing its ugly head.

She sighed, her heart breaking as much for him as it did for Kurt, and reluctantly she shook her head. "Even I couldn't talk any sense into him about that and  _believe_  me, I tried. I argued until I was blue in the face yesterday, but some people are as stubborn as mules." Lauren, of course, referred to other people, not herself.

"Please!" Blaine was confused, desperate, exhausted and very nearly ready to break down in tears right there in front of everybody.

"Take it easy," she soothed. "I'm not giving up yet. Not by a long shot."

Blaine swiped the back of a hand under his nose and rested his forehead against the cool iron bars. "You're not?" he asked pitifully.

"Give me time. Even the most stubborn of mules gives in eventually. In the meantime, I'll talk to Abe about finding you some work. Fresh air will do you good."

"You think so?" Blaine couldn't dredge up much interest in fresh air at the moment.

"I'm sure of it. You'll go outside and feel the breeze. You'll see and be seen..." Lauren had a feeling that Kurt's hormones might be strong enough to push him right off of his high moral ground. It was a fact that all men had two brains, one in each head, and the lower one had the power to shut the upper one down. Men would inevitably follow their peckers wherever they might lead and damn the consequences. She was counting on it.

Blaine's hopes were buoyed despite the weight of his fear. "Thank you, Cook. You're an angel."

Lauren's lips pursed and she could only nod at the truth of that statement. "Things would run a lot smoother around here if everyone would stop their useless arguing and just accept that I know what's best for them."

He laughed lightly. "Yes, ma'am. Anything you say."

"That's more like it."

* * *

Several days later – he was beginning to lose count – he was finally allowed outside. It was a small group that left the brig with him, as the frequency and length of their removals were much less than they had been before the fire. Although the change might also have been because the Blackbird's crew was too busy to watch over them. The ship was slicing through the water at top speed, which raised a lot of speculation about their heading. The prisoners were starting to feel restless for the end of this strange journey. They talked endlessly about what they'd do once they were released. The more excited they became, the more anxious Blaine was.

His banishment remained in effect, and Cook hadn't been able to bring him any better news than that he'd been assigned to help Tibby and Dom with the wash. Deep down, throughout his renewed imprisonment, a small part of him had expected his lover to come and fetch him, to snap his fingers one day and order the release of his cabin boy, lead him casually back to his room, then ravish him on every available surface.

So, when laundry day rolled around after  _far_  too many, in Blaine's opinion, days below, he couldn't stop himself from frantically searching the main deck, everywhere he could see, hoping for a glimpse of his pirate. His  _one_. But there was nothing. Not a sign of him anywhere.

"Whatcha doing?" Tibby came up beside him, making a show of looking around as well.

"Nothing," Blaine automatically denied for reasons he couldn't fathom.

"Oh. Thought you might've been looking for Cap'n."

"No! Why, what, I, why would I do that?"

Tibby cocked a brow at the spectacularly bumbling response, and Blaine envied the dark, lovely complexion that could probably hide a blush much better than his was doing. "To ask about collecting his clothes, of course. What other reason could there be?"

"Of course!" Lighting up like the rising of the sun, Blaine began to back slowly away. "I should go ask him about that. I should – he's in his cabin, you think? Yeah, wouldn't want to forget the captain's clothes. Definitely not. I'll just–"

"No need. They're right over there." Tibby jabbed a thumb toward a rather large stack of laundry bags and the bright, chipper smile he wore nearly enveloped his face. Behind him, Dom was biting the inside of his cheek and trying not to look directly at them.

Through his pout, Blaine gave them both  _the look_. Although, on seeing it, Tibby's tongue only peeked between his scarily white teeth to be clamped there between them in the middle of his smile. Dom's upper body shook suspiciously.

"Excellent," Blaine said between his own closed teeth.

"I thought so," Tibby agreed with enthusiasm, slinging an arm around Blaine's shoulders. "Because, as you say, we wouldn't want to forget the captain's clothes. They need special care. I don't know if you realize this, but he's very particular about what's allowed to touch his skin," Tibby offered his special brand of wisdom. "Wouldn't you say so, Dom?"

A snort came from Dom's vicinity.

"Exactly," Tibby continued. "Only the best gets draped across his body. Discriminating. That's what he is."

"Are you making jokes at the captain's expense?" Blaine's tone took on an edge.

"Of course not!" Tibby laughed, waving away the very notion. "Yours." The arm around his shoulders squeezed suddenly and the next thing Blaine knew, he was bent double, his face next to Tibby's ribs and an inner elbow wrapped snugly around his throat as he was walked toward the whitest of the white laundry sacks.

"Here you go. I know you can't wait to get your hands on those underpants."

Blaine didn't deny it.

* * *

Loneliness plagued him, gradually melting away any confidence that might have remained to see Blaine through the interminable days and nights. He longed to be held again, for the drag of lips and the slow glide of fingertips across his skin. He couldn't remember anymore how he'd lived without those things for so long before coming here.

With the lack of appetite he showed, Johnny thought he must truly be ill. Nick, on the other hand, pronounced him suffering from cabin fever and suggested he get off his ass, because there sure as hell wasn't anything interesting about the corner he curled himself into for days on end. Some of their captors had brought down books, cards and dice to help the prisoners pass the time, but Blaine could not be enticed. Work days were the only thing that seemed to bring a spark of life back into his sad, tired existence.

It was Trout who came to escort him the next time. Blaine went with him, feeling jittery and emotional, until they reached the main deck and he ran smack into the blond. Trout had stopped to look up at something, and when Blaine followed his gaze, his blood froze at the sight of the captain, walking along one of the horizontal beams, midway up the foremast.

"Oh my God, what is he doing? He could fall! We have to stop him!" cried Blaine. He grabbed Trout by the arm. "Make him get down from there!" he demanded.

The signature smile that Blaine had been used to seeing on Trout's face was much sadder than usual when he shook his head. "He spends a lot of time up there now, walking the spars, checking the rigging, even manning the nest."

"But why?" Blaine took an involuntary step toward the mast as if he'd climb up there and pull his lover down bodily.

"Don't know. He won't talk to anybody. Something's bothering him." Trout shrugged and looked Blaine in the face. "Any idea what it could be?"

He could feel the tears welling up. And he'd been doing so well at holding them back up until then. "He sent me away," Blaine's raspy voice told him. "No explanation. No goodbye. He just sent me away."

Trout was nodding. "I know he did. The question is, why?"

"I don't know!" Blaine swiped angrily at a tear that had dared spill over.

Head tilting to one side, Trout looked doubtful. "If you really stopped to think about it, I think you would know."

Looking up again, Blaine watched the captain's tall, lean frame tread lightly along the narrow beam, at least twenty-five feet from the deck. One hand skimmed a rope at shoulder height and he was looking out to sea, rather than watching his every footstep, protected by the natural grace that wouldn't let him fall. Blaine could only stare at him, heedless of the yearning that must be clear on his face. "He did it to protect me, didn't he?" He asked quietly, without looking away.

"The captain has always looked out for his crew for as long as I've known him," was Trout's ambiguous reply.

"That includes me?"

"That includes everyone on this ship and everyone he cares about in the world, no matter where they are. He'd lay down his life for any one of us."

Blaine's lost, watery gaze turned back to the blond. "I don't know what to do. What should I do?"

Trout just patted his arm and gestured toward the familiar washtub that sat out on the deck several yards away. Its shelter was gone now, the little wooden structure that no other captain would have permitted in the first place. As they walked slowly toward Dom and Tibby, already busy with the backbreaking chore, Trout offered the only advice he could. "You do what all of us do," he said. "You follow orders and trust Captain Black to make the right decisions."

Blaine did trust him to make decisions about his safety. But as for decisions that would affect his happiness, he was frankly terrified that Captain thought the two conflicted, and had therefore chosen one over the other.

A month passed that way, with no contact. Any time Blaine was allowed out, the captain was either in the crow's nest, traipsing through the rigging, or nowhere to be seen.

Cook was beside herself, while others offered sympathetic smiles or avoided his gaze. Tibby and Dom seemed to have made it their mission to cheer him up, and Davidson had taken to ignoring him altogether. That, at least, was an improvement.

Blaine himself was completely numb.

It was clear that the captain had made his choice. There was nothing Blaine could do about it if the man wouldn't speak to him. Wouldn't so much as look at him. So, he scraped together the remnants of his pride and went on with his life, waiting like the others for the day they'd be set free. Beyond that, he wasn't able to think or plan. His mind refused to move past that first hurdle, of leaving the captain. Like a wide, dark chasm, he couldn't see past it.

* * *

Dave stood at the rail, holding himself stiffly, shoulders aching with the tension that never seemed to leave him anymore. The time had finally come to put the latest batch of prisoners off of their ship, and he had never been so eager to see the back of anyone. This job had brought nothing but misery to the Blackbird, and Dave, for one, blamed the Iron Fist crew, the whole damned lot of them.

It was hours past nightfall, and Trout and Mick were back from scouting the drop off point, towing a little caravan of small, empty row boats. Finley, Puck, and Jack would return soon as well from wherever they'd taken Smythe, along with the log books Abe had been studying for the past month and the stack of notes he'd been writing furiously as he read. Dave didn't know the whole story behind all that but, regardless, it had been a pleasure lowering the bastard over the side by a rope, gagged and trussed up like a pig for roasting. The rope might have slipped once or twice on the way down and given the prick a cold dunking before he was fished out of the water and hauled into the boat, but these things happened.

Abe had also finished clearing their own books. Dave scowled to think of the captain's ridiculous insistence that prisoners should be allowed to work – and then be paid for it! Dave saw no reason to treat a bunch of captives as if they were a part of this crew. They should be grateful to be alive. It was more than they'd get from anyone else.

He glanced over at the captain, standing tall and straight, his face as blank and pale as new parchment. He'd been acting strangely ever since they'd captured that damned ship, almost like he'd lost his taste for pirating. More than once, he'd raised his voice to Dave for simply doing his job, even going so far as to point a gun at his head when Dave had tried to protect him.

It was that little shit, Anderson's fault. He must have corrupted the captain somehow, to make him turn on his own man like that when Dave had only wanted to help. He'd stayed by Captain's side through thick and thin over the years, always at hand for anything he might need. Dave's fists clenched. He'd waited patiently all that time, right under Captain's nose, ready and willing to give him everything, only to have a prissy rich boy come along and steal him away.

Thankfully, something had happened to bring Captain to his senses and he hadn't gone anywhere near the brig or the boy in weeks. Tonight, the prisoners were leaving, and starting tomorrow Dave would remind Captain Black that there was a real man right in front of him. He didn't need to settle for a passing fancy.

Out in the darkness, a glint of light signaled the men's return from shore, and on deck the prisoners were lining up to climb down rope ladders into the waiting boats. Aside from the women, almost every one of them was smiling like an idiot. Dave's eyes rolled. Anderson shuffled along behind the rest, staring at his feet. Maybe he'd fall off the ladder and make Dave's day.

He eased closer to the captain and folded his arms across his chest, ready to stonewall anyone stupid enough to rush him. Captain didn't move or in any way react to the fuss going on around them, the dozens of men wandering about in the dim moonlight, two crews saying goodbye as if they were old friends. No wonder Captain wanted nothing to do with it. It was disgusting.

He didn't look disgusted, though, or anything else for that matter. If Dave were the philosophical sort, he might say the captain was repressing his feelings. Hardly a blink came from his direction for the next fifteen minutes while the prisoners were leaving until, finally, the last boat was away and the ladders raised.

No one had fallen in, Dave was sorry to note, but at least they were gone, vanishing quickly into the blackness. And if anyone was staring up at the ship with big, teary, girly eyes as their boat was leaving, they went unnoticed.

As the last boat disappeared from view, Dave caught a hint of movement out of the corner of his eye, but it was only the captain's thumb, making tiny swipes across the butt of his pistol. Other than that, he remained as still as a statue.

"Captain," he said, "we're ready to weigh anchor. What's our heading, sir?"

Captain's head turned toward him, his eyes were emotionless and dead. "Home for repairs, Davidson." He walked slowly away after the quiet order, heading toward his cabin.

"Aye, sir," Dave said to his back before going to the helm to relay the instructions. Then he was done for the night. Except. Something niggled at the back of his mind and his feet took him to the captain's cabin rather than his own bunk.

No one answered his knock. That was odd. He tried the handle, and the unlocked door swung open. There was Captain, sitting at his table, doing nothing. "Captain?" Dave kept his voice down, not wanting to startle the man who was probably deep in thought about all the repairs they'd need to make once they reached home port. He wasn't moving, except his hands, which were slowly spinning the gun that lay on the tabletop.

"Captain?" he asked again, crossing to stand opposite him. But when the bright blue eyes rose to meet his, Dave was shocked to see tears in them. He dropped into a chair and stared back.

* * *

"Captain, what is it? Are you hurt?"

Kurt blinked across the table. "Davidson," he said, feeling foggy and disconnected. The master gunner was sitting in his bedroom. "Is there a problem?"

"Um. No, sir. I gave Puck your orders and he's bringing the ship about."

"Orders."

"Captain, are you all right? Is there anything I can get you?"

The words had to sink in slowly before Kurt could make sense of them. "Fine," he said.

"Are you sure? Maybe I should get the doctor or Mr. Finley. Or Cook?"

Davidson kept talking, saying things Kurt couldn't quite hear. His head felt stuffed full of cotton, and pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes wasn't helping. He wanted to be alone. "No," he said, catching Cook's name somewhere in the noise Davidson was making. Kurt waved him away. "Tell Puck to head for home." Kurt made some effort to sound firm. "Go," he said when Davidson continued to sit there, giving him a strange look.

The chair scraped loudly across the floor as Davidson rose. Kurt winced at the noise and frowned up at him. Davidson looked different. Not angry. Kurt noticed the change abstractly, but didn't have it in him just then to focus on his gunner's unhappy quirks. Kurt had his own problems. Plenty of them. Right now, he really needed to cry, so Davidson would have to go be not angry somewhere else.

He sighed in relief when his door closed, leaving him alone again, his hands spreading out on the empty table. He couldn't remember what he'd been doing before he was interrupted, but it wasn't important. His head lowered gently until his cheek rested on the cool wood.

Now he could cry in peace.

 


	16. Luck is for Fools and Beggars

Time had gone by slowly. Quite a lot of time. One year, three months and nine days, to be exact. That, plus a number of hours that Kurt did not track.

Being able to recite the months, weeks, and even days was perfectly normal; practically expected. But counting the hours? Some might call that obsessive. If anyone were to ask him how much time had passed since he had last seen Blaine Anderson – no one had asked yet, but Kurt did not want to be caught unprepared – the correct response was to first consider the question thoughtfully, as if for the first time, and then shrug and say, 'A year, I suppose? Give or take a few months.' That was a normal answer, a not-obsessive one. Kurt had practiced, and he knew.

He blew out a long, slow breath, wishing uselessly for the next several (uncounted) hours to hurry up and tick by. This day had taken an eternity to arrive, for those keeping track, and now that it had, the time was creeping past with all the swiftness of a pregnant sea turtle on a sandy beach. The sun remained well above the horizon, higher than the highest peak of the lush, beautiful island that loomed off of their port side. The best that could be said of the sun at the moment was that it was no longer directly overhead, beating down onto any poor soul who might happen to be standing out in the open, at the rail of a ship, fingers drumming and one knee twitching up and down. The afternoon was waning, if at too leisurely a pace to suit Kurt.

The fact that the end of the day would only signal a new phase of waiting didn't lessen his impatience any. Tracking down a man who had stated his desire to travel the world would by no means be the easiest thing Kurt had ever done. He could only dread how long it would take. He would do it, however. He had to.

Fifteen months he'd waited already. Not such a long time, in the grand scheme of things. Unless you happened to be living in your own personal hell.

Kurt had spent them remembering what he'd had, something brilliant and joyous and so, so rare, and knowing that he had let it go. His only comfort had come from reassuring himself again and again that it had been the only thing he could do at the time, what with that Smythe bastard making dangerous and unfounded threats against Blaine. Imagine anyone accusing sweet, harmless Blaine of being a pirate. And not just an ordinary pirate, but a damned spy sent to lure honest, hard-working men to their doom! Any other captain would have killed Smythe on the spot.

Not Kurt. He had sent Blaine away. And now, aside from a name, he had only two facts to draw upon to help find him again. First, he knew that the passengers and crew of the Iron Fist had been dropped off at this very island all those months previous, which was bound to have stirred up some interest among the inhabitants, and second, he knew that Blaine had denied any wish to return to his father's home.

It wasn't much to go on, but it was something. There were sure to be records of incoming and outgoing ships at the harbor. Possibly even passenger lists, though he wouldn't get his hopes up. He could quickly home in on the ships most likely to have taken on passengers, and prioritize those that had set a course for foreign lands. He had a plan. He just needed to get his hands on those records, somehow. After that, he would have a much better idea of where to start looking.

If there were too many leads to follow, he would bring in outside help to narrow it down. He had already begun writing letters to certain discreet individuals who had made inquiries for him in the past; men who had proven themselves capable, without the need to ask Kurt a lot of difficult questions. The letters were packed away, along with all the other belongings he'd be taking with him. He would learn what he could and divide up the list of ships to be tracked down prior to posting the letters. Duplicating efforts would only slow the search. Kurt was not interested in slow. He wanted...

He wanted to get past the desperate loneliness that had become his life. It had taken Kurt a long time to admit that he was punishing himself, but eventually he had, and he was ready to stop now. He had woken up one dark morning and known that he couldn't go on as he was. He had to do something. So began a period of intensive planning and preparation, all leading him here to this island, where he waited impatiently to embark on the most important quest of his life.

Of course, there was every chance that Blaine would want nothing to do with him, but Kurt refused to dwell on the possibility. That kind of defeatist attitude had landed him in this predicament in the first place, making assumptions and decisions based on fear. He'd separated himself from Blaine for Blaine's own good, without so much as an explanation, without giving Blaine a chance to decide for himself what he was willing to risk. Not this time. He would find Blaine. That was step one. Find Blaine and offer up himself. After that? Well, what happened after that would be up to Blaine.

"You're going after him, aren't you?"

Kurt jumped, spinning around faster than he could register that it was only Finn.

"Whoa!" Finn rocked back on his heels. "Easy there."

"I am not a horse, Finn!" Kurt snapped, feeling ridiculous. He'd been standing there daydreaming to the extent that he was caught off-guard by Finn. Finn! Kurt's brother had many good qualities. Stealth was not one of them.

"Sorry! I didn't mean to startle you."

"You didn't-" Kurt stopped before the lie could finish forming on his tongue. He took a slow breath and told himself to speak normally. "You did startle me, but it wasn't your fault. I should have been paying better attention. I apologize for snapping at you." There. That was a calm and well-spoken response. There was no need to feel so defensive and ready to jump down people's throats all the time. With enough practice, he could be as polite and friendly as anybody else.

Finn smiled and relaxed his stance. "That's all right. I know you don't mean anything by it." One of Finn's good qualities was a tendency to forgive Kurt his bad ones. "Sorry again if I scared you."

"You don't have to-" Kurt broke off with a sigh. In a contest between the two of them for who could out-nice whom, Kurt was not going to win. "Thank you, Finn." He thought back a few minutes to what had set him off in the first place. "What was your question before?"

At first, he got a puzzled look. Then, "Oh! I almost forgot. I asked if you're going after him."

Kurt stared back, color leaching from his face while the silence stretched uncomfortably.

"Kurt?"

"Um. After whom?" he asked, his high, chirpy voice not fooling anyone.

The disappointment that slowly built up in Finn's expressive brown eyes would have done Burt Hummel proud. It certainly filled Kurt with shame. He ducked his head. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I try to deflect like that."

The sorrowful, understanding little nod he got in reply only made Kurt feel worse. If there was anyone in the world who didn't deserve to be subjected to Kurt's temper, it was this man, who never answered anger with anger. Finn moved to lean on the railing, where he could gaze into the water. Kurt followed his lead, standing shoulder to shoulder with his brother. He was starting to realize how very much he was going to miss Finn. They had been there for each other for so long that it was difficult to think of having to leave him behind, now that the time had come.

"Do you remember when our parents met?" Finn abruptly asked him.

"Yes?" Kurt replied, nonplussed.

"Right. Well, your father, ah, he, that is to say we, no he," Finn said, stumbling headlong down a path that apparently did not lead to a complete sentence. That, in itself, wasn't terribly unusual. However, the pinkness of his cheeks was somewhat alarming.

"What about my father?"

Finn cleared his throat again, eyes flitting around the horizon and never landing on Kurt. "He had a talk with me, you know? Before he and my mother were married."

"And?" prompted Kurt, when his baffled squint failed to gain him any further explanation.

"Well, he, Burt I mean, he wanted to – to be certain I knew what to expect, I suppose." Finn's blush grew brighter. "Not that I understood what he was getting at. Not at first. I'd never heard of such a thing. Didn't know it was even possible. It just never occurred to me, you know?"

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

"Yeah. Exactly," Finn chuckled. "That's just how I felt, too."

Exasperation began to edge Kurt's tone when he asked slowly and clearly, "Finn? What are you talking about?"

Finn sighed. "Your father. He taught me about respect. He made me see that no two people are exactly alike. He taught me how important it is to understand that, and to not judge people who aren't like myself, because no one is. There will never be another person who will view everything in the world exactly the way I do, and there is nothing wrong with that," he said, as if repeating a quote. "My opinions and feelings and preferences are all my own. And the same is true for everyone. The same is true for you."

Kurt stared at his brother's profile in dawning, horrified comprehension. He had been holding onto his delusions of privacy for many years, and would have happily maintained them for the rest of his life, if allowed. After a minute of mortified silence, though, he began to recover enough to be thankful for his father's foresight. If not for that talk, which Finn had clearly taken to heart, the two siblings might never have grown so close. Finn might have hated him, in fact. People feared what they didn't understand. That's what Kurt's father had taught him, and yet he had always taken Finn's kindness at face value, never once questioning his good fortune in having a step-brother who accepted him just as he was.

"You and I are different in a lot of ways." Finn turned his warm, ready smile on Kurt. "What's important is that you're my brother, and a good man, and I love you."

Kurt's answering smile was wobbly, his throat tight. "I love you, too."

Nodding, Finn bit his lip as if trying to work something out in his head. "Should we hug?"

Kurt laughed softly, wiping the corners of his eyes. "Maybe a handshake. The men could be watching."

"Right. Okay. Another time, then." He straightened and held out a hand.

"Definitely," agreed Kurt, clasping it in his own and feeling closer to Finn than he ever had.

"All right. So!" Finn clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly. "Now we've got that out of the way, I only have one question." He took a deep breath and looked at Kurt with a serious expression.

"Yes, of course." Kurt put his serious face on, as well.

"Are you sure you won't change your mind?" Finn shrank in on himself, eyes begging.

Kurt's peal of laughter rang uninhibited through the air. Sailors stopped what they were doing to peer curiously at the pair, which was why some of the men did in fact see them hug.

"I am going to miss you so much!" Kurt exclaimed, pulling back, his hands on Finn's shoulders. "You listen to me," he spoke firmly, giving his brother a little shake. "You are Captain Finn Hudson. This is your ship now. These are your men." Kurt gestured around them. "You can do this. I know you can. Do you think I would have handed my ship over to just anyone?" He reared back. "Not a chance! You are the only man for the job. This ship has been my home for years, Finn. Yours, too." Kurt poked him. "To other people, it might be just a thing, some wooden planks in the shape of a boat. To me, this ship is family, and you, of all people, know how I feel about my family."

Finn nodded quietly in the face of this impassioned speech. Kurt's head tilted to one side. "If it's the law you're worried about-" he began again, before Finn cut him off.

"No, it's not that so much. With all the changes we've made, even I can hardly recognize us." He ran a self-conscious hand over his shorn head. The last time his hair had been so short was probably in the womb.

When Kurt had made his decision to quit pirating for good, he'd wasted no time developing a plan and preparing to put it into action. His plan? Hide in plain sight. He'd summoned the senior officers, and Lauren, of course, to his stateroom that same night and made the announcement. He was leaving.

Shock and denial were the reactions he'd expected, anticipating every possible argument and ready to fend them off with rationality and determination. What he'd gotten was mostly acceptance, some quiet resignation, and a sly smirk from his know-it-all best friend. Damn her perceptive eyes.

Frowning at their unshocked expressions, after all, it wasn't every day a pirate gave up pirating of his own free will, he had explained that their law-breaking days were over. Finn would be taking over as Captain (to Finn's surprise), and anyone who wanted to stay with the ship would be required to radically alter his appearance. Well, at least that pronouncement had caused some raised brows. Not the reception he'd expected, but still, it was a huge relief to be moving forward with his life.

Weeks were spent fitting the men out with new clothes to replace tatty old garments, and wildly overgrown hair and unkempt beards were ruthlessly cut down to respectable lengths. And there wasn't a single one of them who didn't look ten times better, if you asked Kurt.

Some of the men had taken the opportunity to retire from life at sea. They'd all had prosperous careers aboard the Blackbird and, as it was common knowledge that a sailor's life was typically a short one, a goodly number of the crew had thought it best to quit while they were ahead. So, there had been a series of farewells among their tight-knit family as the ship meandered through the Caribbean Sea on its way to New York Harbor.

New York was home for the Hummel-Hudsons, and the decision to homeport there had been a major selling point for Finn when Kurt asked him to take over. Not only was he now the captain of his own ship, but he was going home. From there, he would rebuild the crew and embark on a career as a law-abiding merchant. Kurt knew it was the future that Finn had always wanted for himself.

"You don't need to be nervous, Finn. You're going to be a great captain. I have absolute confidence in you. Just remember that you won't be alone. Your officers will be with you every step of the way, as they've always been for me. And the ship! Don't get me started on all the refurbishment we've done to her over the past few months. She's completely unrecognizable. New sails, a new figurehead (Do you think there'd be a busty mermaid carved onto the bow of MY ship? No.), not to mention a brand new name. The Journey is your ship. The crew will be your responsibility. Take care of them."

It was the word 'responsibility' that did it. Finn stretched to his full height, proudly puffing out his chest. While he might not be one to seek fame or glory, Finn was a natural born protector. Kurt knew it and trusted completely that he had placed the care of this ship and crew into capable hands.

"Small boats astern!" came a shout from the nest. Almost as one, every man on deck looked toward the rear of the ship to see for themselves. Kurt squinted into the distance, a hand raised to shade his eyes from the bright, mid-afternoon sun. Sure enough, two row boats had rounded the island and were headed in their direction. He couldn't quite make out the number of occupants, however. Instinctively, he held out his free hand, expecting to feel the slap of a spyglass on his palm. When nothing happened, he frowned, lowering his hands to look around.

Puck was bearing down on them, spyglass in hand. Throwing a quick wink at Kurt, he stopped next to Finn. "Captain," he said, holding out the glass.

It took Finn a few seconds of startled blinking before he quirked a pleased sort of grin and took the glass. "Thank you, Puck."

"Noah," Kurt corrected automatically.

"Yes, Noah! I almost forgot," Finn sheepishly agreed. Part of the plan Kurt had laid out for a smooth transition included using real names and basically forgetting that they had ever been called anything else.

"Never mind that." Kurt waved an impatient hand. "Look at the boats. What do you see?"

Hurriedly, Finn did as he was asked, expanding the spyglass and holding it to his eye. "There are two boats," he supplied helpfully. He didn't see Kurt's unimpressed face. "Looks like four men per boat. I think they're wearing some kind of uniform."

"Damn it!" Kurt began to pace. "I knew I should have gone ashore as soon as we dropped anchor. The rest of you would have been safe; unrecognizable. They'll certainly have received a thorough description of me from the Iron Fist crew." He stopped, mind racing, searching for any means by which he could get off of the ship in broad daylight without being seen. He'd gotten as far as deciding which of his clothes would be best for treading water while hiding in the shadow of a great, bosomy figurehead when he was suddenly interrupted.

"Captain," said Lauren as she approached their little group.

"Yes?" answered both Kurt and Finn.

She shook her head at Finn and took hold of Kurt's arm. "Come to the galley?" she requested, sounding entirely too tranquil to Kurt's way of thinking.

"There's no time, Lauren! The port authority is coming and I need to get off of the ship immediately." He resumed his ever helpful pacing, hung up on one insurmountable problem. The salt water was going to ruin a pair of his beautifully hand-crafted leather boots, and he did not own any that he was prepared to sacrifice. Why would he?

"I'll have to borrow a pair from someone," he muttered as he walked back and forth, his companions' heads swinging to and fro to watch. The very idea of wearing someone else's shoes made him grimace, but it did seem to be his best option. To lower himself into the water in his stocking feet was simply unthinkable. Something might touch him! He shuddered.

"Captain! Shut your gob. You're coming with me," Lauren informed him more forcefully. She took him by the wrist and dragged him away, sputtering at her back.

Only when they were safely within the walls of the galley did Lauren release her tight hold on his arm. But before he could even begin to deliver the tongue lashing she deserved, she had retrieved a dingy rag and was tossing it around his neck. Looking down, he realized that the rag was actually an apron. In truth, it was a voluminous apron, smeared with stains so disgusting and plentiful that his complaints against being hauled through the ship like a bad dog were instantly replaced with a new, even more urgent list of objections.

"What are you doing?!" he gasped as she circled him, wrapping the apron around his torso like a bandage and trussing him up in its strings until his lovely, pristine ensemble was covered from chest to knee in horrible, once-white cotton. Then, as if that weren't bad enough, she plucked a fistful of flour out of a bowl and threw it at him. She threw it at him! Not once, but twice; aiming for the apron first and then his magnificent, highly polished black boots! He had never before had the urge to hit a female, but this lady had better watch out.

He was just opening his mouth to smite her with his wrath when she came at him again, spreading a suspicious looking substance between her hands. "What is that?" he asked fearfully, but it was too late. Ten fingers, sticky with bread dough, combed through his hair as if applying pomade.

He shrieked.

"What in the Nine Hells do you think you're doing, woman?!" he cried, clutching helplessly at his poor hair.

She cupped his cheeks in her doughy, floury hands and looked him right in his wildly distressed eyes. "I'm getting Captain Black off of this ship," she told him, as if those words made any sense whatsoever. She'd probably been insane this whole time and he just hadn't noticed.

She must have read his expression, because she patted his cheek, leaving behind a smattering of white, and backed away, chuckling. "Wasn't it your idea to hide in plain sight? Now, get to work kneading that dough. We have bread to bake, my handsome, sharp-tongued little helper," she smirked.

Approximately fifteen minutes and twenty insults later, Kurt was wrist deep in a soft, squishy ball of dough, teeth gritted, and fists doing more squeezing than kneading. He tensed – further – when footsteps sounded in the passageway. With his back to the room and his pistol trapped out of reach under his damned, dirty apron, it required enormous effort on Kurt's part to stay calm and keep his head down.

"Here we go. This is the galley," Finn's voice resounded loudly from the doorway, announcing to everyone in the vicinity, in his unsubtle way, that they were coming in. Kurt sighed, sharing a speaking glance with Lauren, who appeared to be completely at ease. Unable to do anything but go along with her plan to  _hide_  him, Kurt forced his body into a more relaxed pose and gentled his grip on the over-kneaded dough. Roll, press and flip, roll, press and flip. Add a sprinkle of flour to the board as Lauren had shown him, then roll, press and flip again. If he was lucky, no one would notice that the formerly fluffy concoction was turning into a dense lump under his careless hands.

Lauren clucked her tongue at him, because of course she noticed. She scooped the lump back into its bowl to rise again and dumped a fresh batch onto his kneading board. He graced her with a flat look that did not say 'Thank you.' She knew him well enough to know what it did say.

"We'll be more comfortable in here." Finn's voice carried across the space as he led the group of strangers into the galley. "Why don't you gentlemen have a seat, and I'll see if there's any coffee on."

There was a soft huff from Lauren at the suggestion that her kitchen might be lacking in some way. If the stove was lit, the coffee was on. Simple as that.

"Do you happen to have any coffee ready, Cook?" Although Finn had moved in close to Lauren and Kurt, he continued to speak at a volume sufficient to be heard by anyone in the room; or outside the room, for that matter. He nodded once toward the men with a polite, strained smile, as if to state that the coffee situation was well in hand. Then he faced away from the group currently seating themselves to hiss in a much quieter voice, "Puck, I mean Noah, insisted that we had to come down here. I tried to tell him you were here, but he wouldn't listen!" Finn glanced sideways at Kurt and did a double-take, goggling at his disguise.

"It's fine. Calm down, and for heaven's sake, act natural," Kurt whispered, still slowly kneading the bread. "Have they told you why they're here?" Next to them, Lauren was noisily assembling a coffee tray, humming a ditty while she worked.

"No." Finn peeked conspicuously over his shoulder at the others. "They've just been making small talk since they boarded. I don't understand it."

"Here you are, gentlemen." Lauren finished preparing the tray and went to serve the men, while Puck kept them chatting about nothing of importance. Finn looked unsure about what to do.

"Go," Kurt directed very softly. "Find out what they want."

Finn gave a short nod and returned determinedly to the group. Kurt, meanwhile, was all set to eavesdrop on their every word. Lauren was a damned genius. However, if she ever touched so much as a crumb of food to his hair again, he would get her falling-down drunk and shave her head while she slept.

"You know why we have come here, I suppose," Kurt heard one of the men say, once all talk of the weather had been exhausted. The man's English was quite good, and his accent and dialect were as delightful as the islands themselves.

"No, sir, I can't say that I do," was Finn's honest reply.

"Captain Hudson, when a strange ship park off of our little island, an' then sit for three days without coming ashore, we start to ask ourselves why," the stranger replied, not unreasonably. Kurt would have been suspicious, too, in their place. "And when this ship have twenty-eight guns, Captain, then we begin to grow concerned, and we wonder if maybe she is waiting for other warships to come. Maybe she plans to attack helpless villages, steal our women and murder our children."

Kurt held his breath.

"Murder what? Do you mean us? We're not here to attack you!" Finn vehemently denied. He sounded genuinely and extremely offended. Kurt approved.

"These are dangerous times, Captain. Pirates be in these waters, sir. We must all be most careful," the man insisted in a tone that made the fine hairs on Kurt's neck stand right up.

Here these people were, inviting themselves aboard, making sly comments about pirates, and dropping blatant hints about an attack. It was too much for Kurt's peace of mind, particularly when his firearm was not readily at hand. Only the knowledge that their guests were grossly outnumbered prevented Kurt from tearing the disgusting apron off and questioning each of them at gunpoint.

"A touch more flour there, boy," said Lauren with a sharp elbow to his arm. He snapped a glare her way, naturally. But perhaps he had needed a small reminder that he was meant to be working and not merely standing there listening. Not if he wanted to remain incognito. He pushed a set of curled knuckles into the dough while directing a raised brow at Lauren that, with anyone else, would have been a stout reminder of who actually worked for whom. From her, it elicited a snort.

Anyway, he supposed that he was technically not the captain anymore. But that was no excuse for not treating him like one.

"You're right, Mr. Barza. These are dangerous times," Puck agreed diplomatically, giving Kurt a name to go with the stranger's voice, "which is why this ship is equipped with the firepower to defend itself, should the need arise. We have heard stories of bold pirates and we have no intention of leaving ourselves vulnerable to attack. However, we haven't come here looking for a fight. We are not your enemy." Kurt gave Puck a mental pat on the back for his nimble handling of that line of questioning. He didn't think he had ever heard such an eloquent speech from Puck, the same man who believed there was no such thing as an inappropriate time to spread his thighs and use his hands to unstick his balls from them. A problem he wouldn't have to deal with so often if he would only consent to wear underpants.

"I see. This is good to hear. Thank you, Mr. Noah. We had hoped this to be the case."

Barza still sounded too artful, too cunning, thought Kurt, charming accent or not. The man wanted something. But what? Perhaps he sought a reward for information that would lead to the capture of a pirate ship? Or a sizeable bribe to forget he'd ever seen them, Kurt's cynical mind provided. He folded his light puff of dough onto itself a couple of times to create a nice, tidy ball, then punched it mercilessly with a floury fist. Lauren smacked him in the chest, her glare warning that if he continued to beat her bread dough to a pulp, he would soon be wearing it on his face.

More of it.

Feeling defiant, he bared his teeth at her. Kurt was more than ready for a fight, if his dear friend wanted to volunteer.

"Perhaps a show of goodwill on all of our parts would be called for. Yes?" Barza was saying, oblivious to the Battle of the Bread that was in danger of erupting within his very midst. The hair-pulling alone would make for an epic tale. Kurt's screech could hit notes that only dolphins could hear.

"Such as what?" Puck asked the man with enough suspicion sharpening his tone to draw Kurt right back to the conversation and away from his very mature staring contest with Lauren.

There was a pause, much to Kurt's annoyance. He really wished he could see Barza's expression; catch the telltale glint of satisfaction that his eyes surely gave away. Because Kurt was absolutely certain that, whatever the strangers' reasons for this visit, Finn and Puck, and by extension everyone aboard, were playing right into their hands.

There could be a small armada lying in wait on the other side of the island even now, ready to attack upon these men's signal. For that matter, the islanders' could be loading land-based cannons right now, prepared to fire from a dozen hidden bunkers the moment this group was safely away. He knew they should have anchored farther offshore! He shouldn't have let himself be convinced that their ship's new identity would protect them. Kurt scowled furiously at the dough squelching between his fingers. He alone had caused this. He had led them into this trap, all to appease his own selfish need for one man. He could have hired any number of other people to search for Blaine. But, no! He'd had to do it himself! Now, Finn and Lauren and the rest of his extended family were in danger, and it was entirely his doing.

Kurt jumped when Lauren placed a gentle hand over his trembling ones. "Are you all right?" she murmured, voice filled with the love and concern he knew was always there, occasional friendly bickering notwithstanding. He shook his head, allowing her to see how much he loved her back, and how very sorry he was for whatever was about to happen. Her brow furrowed with more worry than ever, but Kurt knew it was for him and not herself. She had no idea yet that this could well be the last time they would ever see each other. He fought back tears at the thought. Lauren had done nothing to deserve this. Though she took care to hide it, she possessed a heart as big as the island that now endangered them. She had always fussed over everyone equally, crew and prisoner alike, taking care of them like they were her own, and he loved her so much for it.

"Our little island has much good food and drink for tired sailors, sirs. The southern port is very close, and if your ship, perhaps, were to dock there for a short time, I am sure your men would be most gratified. And while you are here, if you require supplies, we would be most pleased to accommodate. The best of sugar cane and healthful fruits in all the islands are grown right here, and we also have many fat pigs for the eating, sir. You will not be disappointed."

"What?!" Kurt yelled, turning a crazed, incredulous glare on a disconcerted Barza. "Pigs? You are here to sell pigs?!" Kurt let loose an almighty war cry, no doubt startling every dolphin in the area as he charged the hapless stranger. He almost got him, too. With arms outstretched, dough and flour-crusted claws leading the way, Kurt was prevented from attempting to rend the man's limbs from his body by Puck's quick action. He jumped from his seat to catch Kurt up, using Kurt's own momentum to throw him over his shoulder as he rose.

Puck, being Puck, turned to their gobsmacked guests just as if there weren't an insane person slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Unlike grain, however, Kurt was pummeling Puck's back and regaling them all very loudly with every swear word he knew and some he made up. "I am sorry about that," said Puck, ignoring the ruckus. "The boy is not quite right in the head, I'm afraid. Has an awful fear of P-I-Gs. His family was killed by a pack of wild ones, you know. Terrible tragedy. Just hearing that word sends him into a fit." He swirled a finger of his free hand around his ear to indicate Kurt's long-gone sanity and backed away toward the exit. "With your permission, Captain, I'll just tuck the boy into his rack with a bottle of rum. Mother's milk always soothes him, you know. Doesn't do me any harm either, come to think of it. Good day, gentlemen. Captain." He delivered a small salute and hauled his noisy burden out the door.

* * *

Kurt stomped a familiar path across the cabin floor, stopped, whirled around, and stomped the other way. Normally, he would step more lightly, taking care not to scuff his pristine wood floor, but fuck it. This would be Finn's cabin when Kurt left, and he gave it a year before the floor looked like a herd of buffalo had stampeded through.

"That wasn't very smart," came Puck's unwelcome commentary.

Kurt's dirty look was accompanied by a throaty growl.

"Although, I have to admit you made a lasting impression. If they had any suspicions about us, I'm sure those flew out the window when you lost your mind. Right now, they're thinking we've never sailed these waters before, because they surely would have heard tale of the crazy pig hater," Puck smirked. He was seated at the table, feet propped carelessly on the furniture while he lazily watched Kurt pace and helped himself to the grog that Finn had moved into the room with his other vital belongings that morning. His clothing hadn't been packed yet, but his grog was there. "Maybe it was pretty damn smart, after all," Puck finished, raising his cup in a toast.

Kurt stopped to focus his deadly glare on Puck, breathing hard from anger and exertion. "I don't give a tinker's damn whether it was smart or not! Look outside! The sun is starting to set, my hair is matted with what feels like dried paste, and those pig salesmen are STILL HERE! I need another bath right now! And then I need to row out to that godforsaken Island of Swine! Tonight!"

Puck shrugged.

Kurt clenched his fists, his teeth, and everything else that was clenchable.

Puck poured more grog down his throat and smacked his lips. "You look tense. Wanna sit down?" He lifted his worn, smelly boots an inch or so off of Kurt's favorite chair.

Kurt screamed.

"What in blazes is all that racket?" asked Lauren, opening the door and inviting herself in. "Sounds like a seagull got caught in a lumber mill. Thought you'd like to know they've gone. Unless, of course, you're too busy throwing tantrums. Come on in, boys." The last was directed behind her, where Kurt was ecstatic to see three men carrying steaming buckets of water, and a fourth with a tub slung over his back. Billy and Alex had been promoted to crewmen, and were too busy learning everything there was to know about sailing a ship to help out in the kitchen these days.

Kurt grabbed Lauren in a fierce hug. "You are the best friend in this entire, dirty, smelly world!" he tearfully exclaimed.

"I know," she answered, accepting the hug as her due.

* * *

It was a quiet trip to the island that night. Having relaxed considerably through the careful application of bath oils and wine, Kurt was able to lower the oars of his little boat gently into the water with barely a splash. The sedate pace, necessary to avoid detection, wasn't nearly as bothersome as it could have been, now that the uncertainty of the afternoon had passed. As darkness had fallen, and they'd received the much anticipated all-clear signal from the island, Kurt had trembled with relief, knowing that no one aboard would try to prevent his departure.

He settled into the repetitive motion of rowing, allowing the stress of leaving Finn and the others to ease from his limbs and from his mind. His farewell to Lauren had been painful in both a figurative and literal sense, as she had not only delayed his departure with a last minute, and wholly unnecessary, lecture on the dangers of being recognized, but afterward had hugged him so tight, he'd been lucky to escape with his ribs uncracked.

"Captain!" a loudly whispered call met Kurt's ears when he neared shore. He looked over his shoulder, where he was able to make out the shadowy outline of his former gunner's mate standing at the water's edge behind him. He adjusted the boat's direction, rowing a dozen or so yards closer and tossing out a rope so he could be hauled in. Then he hopped out of the boat and helped pull it onto the sand.

Karofsky had been rowed ashore and dropped off the night the ship arrived at the island, under orders from Finn to scout around and assess the potential danger of leaving Kurt there. Kurt had naturally objected to this plan, and was summarily ignored, hence the reason he'd been cooling his heels on the ship for three days in full sight of his destination. It hadn't been easy, but he would not disrespect Finn's authority after appointing him Captain.

Also, Finn had threatened to tell Kurt's father if he sneaked away in the night. So.

"Any problems?" he asked, skipping the pleasantries to get to the heart of what he needed to know.

"No, sir," Karofsky answered in his usual prompt, regimented style. He had proven entirely unable to treat Kurt as an equal or call him by his surname, let alone his given name. It was one more reason for Kurt to leave. His time as the ship's captain was over and needed to be put behind him. Not that Kurt couldn't sympathize. He found it extremely difficult to think of the others by their true names and not the aliases they'd been using for so long. The name Davidson was on the tip of his tongue every time he spoke with Karofsky. It was how Kurt thought of him. Yes, it was definitely time to leave, for everyone's safety.

"No rumors in the air to indicate that the locals suspect anything?"

Karofsky hefted Kurt's trunk onto his shoulder with an ease that made Kurt twinge with envy. "No, sir. There is speculation about the ship and its reason for being here, but no sign that it's been recognized."

"Some of the locals paid us a visit this afternoon, looking for information." Kurt's lip curled in disgust. After the needless panic he'd been put through earlier, he wasn't ready to forgive just yet. "They convinced Captain Hudson to make port tomorrow, so the officers and crew can 'enjoy the island's hospitality,' for a reasonable price, of course. Probably sold him fifty bushel of raw sugar cane while they were at it," he groused. "Finn never was very good at saying no to people." Kurt sighed. "Help Noah look out for him, will you? Your new captain is kind and generous to a fault. He doesn't always recognize when someone is trying to take advantage of him."

Karofsky nodded, looking proud, as if Kurt were doing him a favor by asking, and not the other way around.

They trudged across the rocky beach and up a small hill, Karofsky with the awkward burden on his shoulder, and Kurt with his sea bag across his back. There, on a dirt road behind a copse of trees, a hired carriage was waiting. The driver took no notice of them, busy murmuring to his rather skittish horses and checking their harnesses. Karofsky secured Kurt's things to the roof himself and retrieved his own small bag. He would be taking the boat and returning to the ship.

"The driver will take you to an inn a couple of miles past the harbor. It's too far for sailors to bother with. You'll be safer there. The innkeeper is expecting you, under the name Smith. Michael Smith."

"Smith," Kurt replied with a soft laugh, nodding at the inevitability of it. "Of course."

"And he's paid up through the night, so don't let him cheat you!" It was kind of nice to see Karofsky scowling like old times.

Kurt stepped away from the carriage, out of earshot of the inattentive driver. Or rather, he seemed attentive enough to the horses. Either way, Kurt didn't want the stranger listening in. He motioned for Karofsky to follow him.

Having said his painful goodbyes to everyone else, it seemed only right for Kurt to bid farewell to this man, who had been a deeply loyal member of his crew. He held out a hand, which Karofsky stared at for several seconds before clasping it gingerly within his own. As ever, Kurt accepted the man's mystifying behavior with a mental eye-roll and politely refrained from asking what the hell went on inside that head of his.

"I want to thank you, Mr. Karofsky. Despite our occasional differences, you have never given me a moment's worry about your capabilities or trustworthiness. You are an outstanding officer, and I have recommended you to Captain Hudson for the position of First Mate. It will be his decision, naturally, but I have no doubt that you are up to the job."

Karofsky's expression transformed into one of wonder. For a moment, Kurt thought the man was going to hug him. He leaned ever so slightly backwards.

"Captain... I don't know what to say."

Kurt waved off the gratitude, and the discomfort of having elicited a positive emotion from the sternest, some might say grouchiest, of sailors. "I didn't tell Captain Hudson anything that wasn't true. If he selects you as First Mate, it will be because you've earned it."

Karofsky appeared to be speechless, and the awkwardness began to grow to oppressive levels. Kurt cleared his throat, glancing toward the carriage. The driver had finished his preparations and taken his seat, reins in hand. "You should get going. Cook is probably pacing the deck, waiting to pounce on you the moment you get back," he warned. "Please tell her that I'm fine."

"Yes, sir." Karofsky shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking suddenly nervous. Kurt didn't think he had ever seen the man so out of character before. He sniffed surreptitiously for the telltale stench of whiskey, but found none.

"Captain, I –"

Clearly, the man had something to say, and Kurt was going to be stuck there until he said it. "Yes?" he asked, aiming for polite encouragement rather than strained impatience. He wasn't sure he succeeded completely.

With a deep inhale, Karofsky seemed to round up his courage. It was a disturbing sight, as Kurt had never known the man to be lacking in that department. Kurt was inclined to make a run for it, before the situation became any more bizarre, but he was kept there, first by his own curiosity and then by the intensity of Karofsky's stare.

"Captain," the sailor said briskly. Kurt's internal eyes began to roll again. He didn't know why he bothered, sometimes. "I know that things haven't been the same for the past year or so," Karofsky went on. Kurt tensed, and also congratulated himself on this confirmation of the answer to how long ago his life had fallen apart, as perceived by others. "And I just want to say that," he paused, looking nervous again. One of Kurt's brows rose of its own accord. Karofsky swallowed audibly. "I hope that... I hope you find what you're looking for, Captain." His lips went tight in an expression that was much more familiar and, with a final, sharp nod, he left.

Why did conversations with Karofsky always leave Kurt feeling that they had been talking at cross purposes? He resolved to stop thinking about it and walked toward the carriage, more than ready to put that particular mystery behind him. After confirming that his bags were securely strapped to the roof, he opened the carriage door, slapping twice against the side as he began to climb in. The driver, or possibly the horses, must have been growing impatient, as the carriage jerked forward with a sharp jolt.

That suited Kurt. He jumped quickly inside, slamming the door and planting himself on the bench seat before he could be sent sprawling onto the floor by the jouncing of the buggy over the rough, bumpy road. The interior was inky black, with heavy velvet curtains pulled closed to keep out dust from the window openings. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back and allowing himself to bask in a rush of relief, and in a certain tingle of anticipation. He was well and truly on his way now.

"Captain?"

Kurt leaped to his feet like a startled cat, banged his head on the low ceiling, fell hard back onto his seat, leaped to his feet again, this time in a crouch, and scoured the darkness with his gun drawn, ready to aim just as soon as he could discern a target.

"Captain!" the disembodied voice came again, louder, as if its owner were the startled one.

A bare shimmer of skin showed itself once Kurt was actively looking. Not satisfied with that, he flung his free hand blindly outward to rip the curtain open on one side. With the help of a little moonlight, Kurt could now see someone sitting on the opposite bench. He couldn't make out any details in the darkness beyond wide eyes and two hands spread outward in front of his chest, apparently unarmed. The man's clothes were too dark to be seen clearly, offering no hints as to who the intruder might be. He could be a bounty hunter, a sneak thief, or something else altogether. Kurt's weapon stayed fixed on the stranger as he cast a suspicious glance into the shadowed corners, spotting no one else. Kurt didn't trust that any more than he trusted that the man was unarmed. The driver probably worked for him, and other men would be following on horseback. Only a fool would have come alone.

"What do you want?" Kurt demanded, calling on years of practice to infuse his voice with all the promise of blood and pain that one could wish for in a pirate. Fear was an excellent motivator, so much so that he had rarely found it necessary to follow through on his threats.

Instead of answering, the man gaped at Kurt, an odd reaction under the circumstances. Perhaps he was a simpleton. Kurt slowly sat down once more, pistol aimed at the stranger's heart. Never in Kurt's life had he shot and killed a man, but he thought himself capable of it, if he or someone he loved were in danger. For now, though, this man was of more use to him as a hostage, or a shield, should the unseen horsemen attack.

The stranger must have sneaked into the carriage while he and Karofsky were speaking. Kurt was quite annoyed to have been waylaid already, five short minutes into his quest. He cranked up the heat of his glare, hoping it cut through the darkness sufficiently. "Speak!" he demanded, gratified when the man jumped.

"Captain, I -"

"Stop calling me that!" he growled threateningly.

"But I… Yes, sir." Silence crept in behind the disappointment and resignation that were audible in the stranger's voice.

Kurt was satisfied with that response. It had been a long while since he'd tried to intimidate anyone, or played to his reputation at all. He hadn't wanted to. This whole ambush was so unfair. He just wished he could leave that life behind! But since wishing had never gotten him anywhere, Kurt leaned back and let his blank mask slide into place, ignoring the jarring ride that rattled his bones. It was important to maintain a cool head when attempting to keep the enemy off-balance. Show no fear. He cocked the gun. "Start talking."

Despite the threat, the silence continued. Kurt couldn't read the stranger's expression. He decided he must be scarier than he thought to strike the man speechless, and immediately felt ashamed of the fact. What would his father say if he could see Kurt at that very moment? It didn't bear thinking of, so he pushed it aside with the excuse that this was a life and death situation. "I'm waiting," he said in a tone that had softened slightly.

"I wanted to see you. I hoped that you might, maybe, that you might want–" the man replied so softly and so nonsensically that Kurt knew he must have missed something crucial in the explanation. If it could be called an explanation.

His head shook from side to side to clear away the confusion. "Want what?" he prompted in complete bewilderment.

"To see me. I thought." The man slumped in his seat, and Kurt's grip tightened on his gun. "I shouldn't have come." The stranger seemed to be talking more to himself than to Kurt. "It was a mistake. I'm sorry." He turned away, directing his gaze out of the narrow gap in the window curtains.

When he did, faint light glinted off of his profile. His very familiar profile. Kurt froze. It had been so long since he'd admired the strength of that particular clean-shaven jaw. It was impossible. His hair was slicked tight to his head, with no sign of beloved curls. But the nose. The line of the brow. They were so dear that Kurt could hardly breathe. "Blaine?"

"What?" he answered shortly, continuing to stare dejectedly out of the window.

Kurt was the one who was gaping, then. "What are you doing here?" he stupidly asked, as if it mattered why he was there. What mattered was that he was there!

Blaine scoffed. "Humiliating myself." He turned further away from Kurt's avid gaze. "I really thought that we... Never mind. It was foolish of me. I won't bother you again, or tell anyone who you are. Davidson didn't tell me why you're here or where you're going, so you don't have to worry."

"Davidson!" Kurt hadn't thought he could be any more shocked. "Davidson knows you're here?"

Blaine turned abruptly to stare at Kurt, his face cast back into shadow and his expression unreadable. "He didn't tell you?"

He might have known that Karofsky would be involved. When had that man ever done anything that made sense to Kurt? "He didn't say a word. I didn't know there was anyone in here, let alone you." Kurt answered, still trying to convince himself that this was real. "I almost shot you." He paused, brow furrowing. "I could have killed you!" he cried, suddenly and absolutely furious at Karofsky for putting Blaine's life at risk. The bastard was lucky he wasn't there at that moment.

"Captain?" Blaine leaned forward. "Does this mean you aren't angry that I'm here?"

Just like that, Karofsky was forgotten, and Kurt was reminded of something a thousand times more important. Blaine, his Blaine, was so close that Kurt could reach out and touch him. And why wasn't he touching Blaine, yet? His arms began to open in invitation, flying wide when the carriage wheel hit a deep hole in the road. The sound of the gun going off in Kurt's hand was as much of a surprise to him as it was to Blaine, and less than it was to the horses. Blaine was thrown backwards, the pistol went crashing to the floor, and Kurt had to brace himself with hands and feet to keep from joining it when the startled team bolted forward.

"Blaine!" Kurt yelled over the noise of the speeding carriage and the urgent shouting of the driver trying to regain control. Please, don't let him be shot! Kurt silently begged the deity he'd turned his back on all those years ago. "Blaine!"

"I'm all right!" Blaine yelled back, struggling to right himself on a bench that was doing its best to bounce him straight through the roof. Kurt could have wept with relief, if the world hadn't come crashing down around him in the next moment, when the frightened horses went hurtling around a bend in the road at a speed that the carriage could not match. Two wheels left the ground and sent the vehicle careening, toppling onto its side. The last thing Kurt heard was the screaming of the driver as he was thrown.

* * *

Everything hurt. That was Kurt's first thought. His second was Blaine and with it came instant, heart-stopping fear, interrupted by his third thought, that something was touching his face.

"Captain."

The voice he had failed to recognize, no matter how many times he'd dreamed of it, was little more than a scratchy creak of a sound now, followed by a fit of coughing.

"Captain, please wake up," it came again, along with the thing on his face. Fingers, he thought. Fingers were patting his cheek. "Oh, please, please, wake up."

Blaine was talking to him. The fear began to recede and the pain came viciously back to the forefront. He sucked in a sharp breath.

"Oh, thank God you're all right," Blaine rasped in a hoarse, relieved sigh.

Kurt was glad one of them thought he was all right.

"Can you move?" Blaine began to probe gently, starting at Kurt's chest and working outward until a hiss of pain stopped him at Kurt's shoulder. There was a muttered expletive, some shuffling around, and then, "I think your arm might be broken."

Of course. It figured that Kurt would get himself injured. Obviously, he couldn't just miraculously find Blaine and live happily ever after. That wasn't how his life worked. If he could have chuckled, he would have. He coughed, working the dust out of his mouth and throat. "I think you're right," he agreed once he could make his voice work, however roughly. Blinking his eyes open, he saw Blaine hovering directly over him. "Blaine," he said, instantly reduced to babbling the man's name again like an imbecile. The smile he got in return, though, made it worthwhile. Kurt just wished he had a candle to see by. He wanted to soak in every detail of Blaine's wonderful, dirt-smeared face. "You shaved," his mouth continued to run without permission from his brain, but Blaine's smile only grew. Any bigger and his teeth might reflect enough moonlight for them to see by.

"Yes, I did," Blaine laughed shortly. "What do you think?" He rubbed a hand over his own jaw while Kurt looked on with envy.

"I didn't recognize you," Kurt answered, longing to feel the smooth skin for himself, and not just against his hand, but he managed to keep the inappropriate responses locked behind his teeth that time.

"Oh," said Blaine, sounding disappointed for some reason. "I didn't think of that."

"You look good," Kurt quickly reassured. Too late, however. Blaine was turning his attention upward, to what looked like the side of the carriage, except that it was pointed at the night sky.

There was an opening where the door had been either flung open or ripped away, giving them a view of far distant stars. "We're going to have to climb out," Blaine stated. The uncertainty of how they might do that was clear in his tone.

The benches they'd been seated on were now vertical, and the carriage's other door was underneath Kurt's back where he lay on the ground. He watched Blaine get carefully to his feet and lift his hands to grasp the doorframe above him. It was easily reached. Not so easily climbed through.

When Blaine secured his grip on the doorframe and tried to lift himself straight up, the top of his head made it to the opening, but he wasn't able to get his elbow out and reposition it to lever himself higher. Kurt, meanwhile, gingerly maneuvered himself into a sitting position, holding his injured arm close to his body and biting his tongue to keep from crying out.

The odds of someone coming along to help them at this time of night were practically non-existent and, while Kurt could hear the horses blowing and rustling outside, there was no sound of the driver. He kept an eye on Blaine's swinging feet, willing him to succeed.

After a couple of failed attempts, Blaine dropped back down, breathing hard and peering around inside the carriage for anything that might help. "A-ha," he said, and shot a beautiful smile in Kurt's direction. How he had missed those smiles. Blaine kneeled and fiddled with the bench seat until the base popped open.

"Ah-ha!" Blaine gleefully exclaimed again. He had found a foothold to push himself up and out of the carriage. Kurt stared at the now empty doorway, sinking in the knowledge that he couldn't possibly follow. He slumped where he sat and felt the carriage sway with Blaine's movements as he climbed off. The most he could hope for was that Blaine would not summon the local police to arrest him while he was injured and helpless. Kurt didn't honestly think he would, but life had taught him to expect the worst.

A quiet murmuring outside, the shuffling of hooves, and the jangle of metal indicated that Blaine was trying to release one of the horses. Wherever Blaine was going, whether it was to find help or not, at least he would get there faster on horseback. Kurt sighed, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He was adjusting to the pain in his shoulder. It was now more of a radiating throb than a sharp stab. With his options severely limited, he decided that the best thing to do was to try to sleep until someone came for him.

"Captain!"

Kurt jumped slightly when Blaine's head popped through the door a few minutes later. Kurt gaped at him as Blaine dropped back into the carriage and squatted at Kurt's side. "What the hell?"

"Come on," Blaine ignored the little outburst, putting his hands on Kurt's waist. "Can you stand?" He rose slowly, pulling Kurt with him. "I found the driver. He's unconscious, but alive. We need to hurry."

Kurt clenched his teeth against the pain that resumed stabbing through his arm, and tested the strength and willingness of his legs to hold him upright. Other than a sharp ache in his knee, which was bearable, all things considered, everything seemed to be in working order. Arm tucked to his chest, Kurt nodded at Blaine's worried, inquiring look, unwilling to loosen his jaw, lest he humiliate himself by whimpering.

Slowly, Blaine released him, hands hovering a few inches from Kurt's waist, ready to catch him if needed, and silencing for good the persistent, insidious fear that Blaine would go off and leave him there to fend for himself. When Kurt was steady on his feet, Blaine half-turned and twisted around in the small space, then squatted again. Kurt blinked down at him.

"Put your foot in here," Blaine instructed, holding open a loop of rope; a rope that went straight up and out, Kurt saw, now that he was looking. "Captain," Blaine prompted, attempting to push the rope under Kurt's shoe.

Kurt lifted his foot slightly, so Blaine could secure the loop around it. Then Blaine stood and guided Kurt's good arm in front of his chest, twining the rope once around Kurt's wrist and closing his fingers around it. "Got it?" Blaine gazed into his eyes, standing so close that Kurt could feel him breathing.

He had no sooner nodded silently again than Blaine was clambering back out the same way he had before, which turned out to be by stepping on a narrow support bar under the bench. Kurt smiled, grateful for Blaine's determination. "Ready, Captain?" came his voice from outside. "We're going to lift you up slowly, okay?"

Kurt cleared his throat. "Ready." He tightened his hold and looked up, more than ready to be pulled to freedom.

"Giddap. Good boy, there we go. Nice and slow, that's it," Blaine encouraged the horse that was attached to the other end of the rope. It pulled taut and lifted Kurt gradually into the air until his head peeked through the opening. "Whoa. Whoa, boy. That's good. Now, you stay right there," Blaine told the horse. "Stay." Kurt couldn't see anything that was going on. He could only hope that the horse understood English.

The carriage swayed and then Blaine was there, reaching into the opening to wrap his arms around Kurt's torso and carefully haul him out.

* * *

While Kurt kneeled to check on the unconscious driver, Blaine got to work inspecting the wreckage for anything he could use to fashion a sled that would hold him.

"Why do we need a sled?" Kurt asked. "Can't we lay him across the horse's back?"

"I'd never be able to lift him that high by myself and you're in no shape to pick anyone up."

"At least let me help you," said Kurt, getting to his feet with a wince.

"Don't you dare!" Blaine warned him off. "The last thing I need right now is for you to wrench that arm and pass out on me."

Kurt glared.

"If you want to help, find something you can stand on to mount that horse."

That seemed reasonable, Kurt supposed. Not that he couldn't do more to help. "I've been hurt worse than this plenty of times," he muttered to himself and wandered back the way they'd come, squinting through the darkness along the edge of the road in search of a tree stump or something to stand on. "My clothes!" he cried a few minutes later, horrified to see his sea bag ripped nearly in two and his belongings scattered amongst the dirt and bushes. His mission forgotten, Kurt began retrieving anything he could find.

His trunk lay open and battered not much farther along, most of its contents spilled on the ground, but salvageable. Kurt wrangled it upright and haphazardly repacked what he could, grateful for small favors. That done, he took a firm hold of one handle and dragged the trunk down the road toward the carriage, where a lot of banging and hammering and swearing could now be heard.

"What the hell are you doing?" Blaine yelled the moment he saw Kurt coming. "You didn't need to drag it here! I would have brought the horse to you!"

"There is no need to raise your voice," Kurt huffed, partly in indignation and partly because he was out of breath. He hoped the latter wasn't obvious. Still, he stopped dragging the heavy trunk and plopped down onto it for a short rest. "This isn't to stand on, anyway. This is my luggage."

Blaine stopped what he was doing to gape at Kurt. "This man needs a doctor! Never mind your damned luggage!" he yelled, arms flailing about.

"And I would have been happy to help you with him, but my assistance was not wanted!" Kurt shouted back.

"Gah!" Blaine turned away angrily to finish strapping something behind one of the horses. It looked like he'd managed to get the driver's bench off of the rig with all his hammering.

"My money is in here, anyway," Kurt continued, feeling defensive and as if he might not have won their argument, yet. "How exactly did you plan to pay a physician without funds? Unless you intended to dump the poor man on someone's doorstep and disappear into the night," he said, feeling smug now that he'd thought up a valid excuse for his actions.

"Unless that is a trunk full of gold, I'm sure you could have retrieved your money and left the rest," Blaine shot back without pausing in his work. "And if you think that thing is going on the back of a horse, you must have hit your head harder than I thought!" Blaine aggravatedly yanked on the straps he was tightening.

Kurt lifted his chin and directed his gaze elsewhere, lips tight. "If Davidson could carry one little trunk, I don't see why a horse can't."

"Davidson may be as strong as a horse," Blaine replied, leading one of the animals toward him, "but I'll wager he didn't have to balance the thing on his back without benefit of hands. Now, take what you need from that blasted trunk and then get your ass on the horse! Sir," Blaine finished with a scowl.

Kurt's lips pinched in frustration. It really didn't appear that he was going to win this fight. He stood and opened the trunk one-handed. Rifling through the contents for his money pouch, he offered a silent farewell to the elegant outfits he had looked forward to wearing once he was off the ship. What he found were the letters he'd written to help in his search for Blaine. He drew them out, holding them in his hand and staring down at them.

"Oh, for the love of–" Blaine dropped the horse's lead and plunged both hands into Kurt's clothing. To Kurt's surprise, Blaine snatched up a handful of shirts, rolled them into a rough, cloth bundle and swiftly tied them to the breeching strap of Kurt's horse. "Is there anything else, or can we leave now and find some help for this man?" He dived back in and plucked Kurt's heavy sack of coins from the bottom of the trunk, slammed the lid shut, and pointed a finger at it with quickly evaporating patience. "I hope you know how to ride bareback," he said, his snippy tone counter to any concern there might have been in his words.

Kurt, caught up in his own thoughts, absently answered, "Yes, thank you," and allowed Blaine to help him onto the horse.

Within a few short minutes, Blaine had finished attaching the sled behind his own horse and pulling the other man onto it. He fished around for more of Kurt's clothing, using various pieces to hold the driver in place, then mounted. "Ready?" he asked.

"Yes." All the fight gone out of him, Kurt looked dolefully at Blaine for a sign that all was well. Blaine only clicked his tongue and urged his gelding into a walk, which was all the encouragement Kurt's mount needed to follow. They didn't have a lamp, but the moon had risen high enough in the sky to provide a clear view of the road. Blaine led the way, with Kurt's horse walking alongside the makeshift sled behind him.

Kurt had to admit that Blaine had done an amazing job of putting together the crude transport in such a short time. It was raised slightly off the ground at the forward end, where he'd managed to secure it to the harness shafts on either side of his horse, and he had strapped the driver down at multiple points from his head to his feet to keep the man from rolling off the narrow bench. Kurt couldn't even begrudge the use of the formerly lovely and not-inexpensive clothing articles that had been bespoke from his favorite Saville Row couturier, and were now being quite literally dragged through the dirt. Not when Blaine had used them unhesitatingly to help save a man's life.

"I don't think we're more than three or four miles from the harbor, Captain," Blaine said, twisting briefly to the side and raising his voice above the din of wood scraping the hard ground.

"Oh." Kurt directed a puzzled look at the side of Blaine's head. "Then why didn't you just go for help?"

Blaine was quiet for so long that Kurt began to think he wouldn't get an answer. "I suppose I didn't feel comfortable leaving you there," he finally said. "Both of you," he added quickly.

While Blaine seemed determined to keep his eyes forward, Kurt felt no such compunction. He stared blatantly at his companion until the broad shoulders seemed to tense under his scrutiny. That would never do. Kurt wasn't even sure where this awkwardness was coming from, but it was there, stretching between them. One of them was going to have to bridge it. "You know, you're going to have to call me something other than Captain, if you don't want to see me captured and hanged," he ventured. There was no response.

"You don't want that, do you?"

"Of course not!" Blaine shot him a look over his shoulder. Even if the look was rife with irritation, that was better than being ignored altogether. Kurt smiled serenely until Blaine blinked befuddled eyes at him and turned back to the road. "So, what am I supposed to call you?" he asked, his voice much less terse and a tad uncertain.

"Hmm, good question. I would suggest you call me Kurt, but I suppose that's not the best idea either. What was that name Davidson gave me earlier?" Kurt fished back through his memories for the conversation that had taken place before his carriage, and life, had tipped sideways. It felt as if days had passed since then. "Michael?" He tilted his head, trying to recall. "I think it was Michael. Last name Smith, of course. I'd say he was trying to be funny, but I've never known Davidson to possess a sense of humor." Kurt was gratified to hear a quiet chuckle. Blaine's frosty demeanor was beginning to thaw.

"So... Mr. Smith," said Blaine.

"Please, call me Michael." Kurt tossed back cheekily.

"All right, Michael." Blaine paused, thoughtful. "You don't look like a Michael."

"No, no. I agree. But, like most people, I didn't get to choose my name."

"That's true. We don't choose our relatives or our names. Only our friends." He glanced at Kurt, who smiled back at him.

They rode in silence for a while, if you could describe the godawful racket they made as silence. It didn't faze Kurt, who was happily planning all the wonderful places in the world he would take Blaine to visit. There was a cute little village in France that he would love to see again. He needed to replenish his wardrobe, anyway.

* * *

The sky was streaked with dark gold and burnt orange by the time Kurt and Blaine left the tidy little home of Doctor Fraedrich. Whether he was a trained physician, or the title was merely honorary, Kurt didn't know, but he'd seemed competent enough. The driver had, thankfully, regained consciousness along the way, and had guided them there himself. He would remain in the doctor's care a while longer, but Kurt had refused more than a sling for his arm. Anything beyond that could be seen to by his own trusted physician aboard ship.

They walked side by side along the rutted dirt road, Kurt holding his breath every time the backs of their hands brushed together. Years of practice at masking his feelings were obviously failing him. It was all he could do to hide the emotions that ran riot inside him, from dizzying highs to frightening lows. He didn't know where he stood with Blaine. His entire future rested in someone else's hands, and Kurt didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" said Blaine, looking southeast, over the harbor, where the colors glittered dazzlingly across the water.

"Yes," Kurt agreed softly, although he wasn't looking at the scenic horizon.

Blaine glanced at him and ducked his head. "Sorry, Cap - uh, Michael," he said, grimacing slightly at the fake name. "I've been working nights since I arrived on the island. You've probably seen a thousand sunrises like this."

There was no mention at all of the events that had led to his arrival on the island, and honestly, Kurt was reluctant to bring it up himself. What if Blaine hadn't forgiven him? He didn't appear to be angry, but Kurt was well aware that things were not always as they seemed. Unwilling to break their fragile peace, Kurt chose to nurture avoidance for as long as possible. "What sort of work did you get?" he asked. That was probably a safe enough question.

"I tend bar at a place near the docks." Blaine pushed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, to Kurt's disappointment, putting a stop to any inadvertent touches as they walked. "I tried to get work loading cargo, but no one would have me, and I wanted to stay close."

"Close to what?" Kurt began to feel awkward with his own hand still swinging at his side, alone. Not knowing what else to do with it, he pretended his sling needed some adjustment, and that it didn't hurt like hell when he tugged at it.

"Close to the ships. The sailors."

The sailors. Kurt stopped fiddling with the sling to look at Blaine. Blaine, who was blushing for some reason. A knot formed in Kurt's stomach, knocking around amongst the butterflies that had been swarming there all night. "Oh," he said. He knew very well what sailors were looking for when they pulled into port.

Blaine nodded. "Sailors talk. You taught me that."

Kurt's brow creased. Maybe he had said that in the past, but he didn't know what talking had to do with anything. It wasn't as if Kurt had ever had to question a tavern full of sailors to identify one who might do for the night. It was simply a matter of finding one whose gaze wasn't locked onto the nearest barmaid.

"Anyway, I'd been working there for over a year and never heard anything useful. Then Davidson walked right in, big as life," Blaine explained, laughing softly. "I can't tell you how surprised I was. That was two nights ago. Well, three now." He tipped his chin toward the sunrise and gifted Kurt with a smile so adorable it made his chest ache.

"Davidson." Kurt was trying to listen to Blaine's words and not just stare at his mouth. "You spoke with him?" he asked.

"Not at first." Blaine shook his head. "He didn't recognize me right off."

"But you recognized him?" Kurt would be surprised and concerned if he had, after all they'd done to alter the crew's appearances and ensure their safety.

"It was odd. I recognized him the moment I saw him. But when I stopped to really look, I thought it couldn't be him. He looked completely different. There was something, though: his expression, or his mannerisms. I don't know." Blaine shrugged and stepped around a mud puddle, bumping shoulders with Kurt as they walked, reinvigorating the butterflies. "After a few minutes, Davidson noticed me watching him and he started to make his way toward the bar. I could see the moment he realized who I was. His eyes got big and then he turned and practically ran for the door."

"He ran?" Kurt chuckled, despite everything. "That doesn't sound the man I know."

"Well, maybe 'ran' isn't the right word. It was more like he cleared a path to the door. He shoved past anyone who stood in his way," Blaine grinned, "with me right behind him."

The butterflies all swooped as one. Had Blaine chased after Karofsky in order to find Kurt? Karofsky would never put him at risk, Kurt knew, and yet he had apparently brought Blaine along in the carriage last night, and then left them alone together without so much as a warning. Karofsky wasn't exactly the most trusting of men. He hadn't even told Blaine his real name. Whatever Blaine had said to him to talk his way into that carriage must have been extraordinary, and convincing.

"Look, there's a ship coming in," Blaine said, interrupting Kurt's distracted casting about in his own head for something that would make Karofsky put his trust in Blaine. He knew what he wanted to believe. He also knew that wanting something to be true didn't make it the truth. "Where is your ship?" Blaine asked with a small frown. "Are they coming back for you in a few days?" He looked worriedly over at Kurt. "How long before you have to leave?"

Kurt blinked. He'd been so completely caught up in everything that had happened over the last several hours, that he hadn't even thought about what to do next. The long and potentially fruitless search for Blaine was as far as he'd planned when deciding to leave the ship. He had shied away from thinking ahead to what might happen if he actually did find Blaine, afraid to let hope build that high. It had never occurred to him that the search might be irrelevant.

"It's okay. You don't have to tell me," Blaine took back the question when he failed to get a reply. His lips pressed together and his gaze turned firmly toward the ocean, where the silhouette of a large ship could be seen against the backdrop of the lightening sky. It was drifting slowly into port, close enough by then to lower a boat with the ropes that would be used to haul it the rest of the way.

Kurt would recognize the Blackbird in his sleep, of course, even sporting a bosomy figurehead. It wasn't surprising that Blaine did not, though, with all the changes they had made. Kurt picked up his speed a bit, suddenly anxious to climb aboard and find somewhere to be alone with Blaine. He had a lot of explaining to do and questions to ask, and they would get to that, eventually. But first, Kurt really needed to kiss him. The sooner, the better. All of his explanations would make more sense once he was touching Blaine, was wrapped around him, the way he was meant to be.

The harbor was downhill from them, giving them a good view of the ship's progress while they walked. Blaine was quiet, seemingly lost in his own thoughts and not really paying attention to where they were going, until they got to the pier. He appeared startled to find himself staring up at the newly arrived ship as it lowered its gangplank. He stopped walking and turned a questioning gaze on Kurt.

Kurt took him by the elbow and walked purposefully toward the wide ramp, ignoring the dock workers all around, as well as Blaine's, "Where are we going?" Above them, Finn and Sam stood at the rail, looking not the least bit surprised to see them, which Kurt decided he would wonder about later. Getting Blaine aboard before he came to his senses and disappeared into the crowd was priority one. To that end, he tugged Blaine right up onto the gangway and poked him in the back to get him moving up the steep ramp. Blaine obviously didn't know what the hell was going on, if the look he gave Kurt over his shoulder was anything to go by, but up he went.

* * *

Blaine didn't know what the hell was going on. Except that, for some reason, Captain wanted him to board the ship that had just docked. So he did. No protests. No questions. He followed the captain's guidance, shaking his head at himself for continuing to put all his faith and trust in a person who had definitely not earned it.

"Good to see you again, Anderson," someone met him with a friendly greeting when he stepped off of the gangplank. Blaine halted in surprise, unable to place the man, although he was strangely familiar. His look was distinctive, with dark blond hair brushed forward over his forehead, and shaved cheeks paired with a long mustache and pointed beard in a style similar to the portrait of Blaine's great-grandfather that had always hung in his father's study. It was uncommon enough that Blaine should have been able to remember him just from that. He was handsome, too, his plump lips tilted upwards into a bright, sunny smile. Blaine's mouth dropped open, his eyes snapping to the captain and back.

"Trout?! What the – what are you doing here?" he blurted, and was nudged forward, perhaps more roughly than necessary, past an exceedingly tall man who was sharply dressed for a sailor. His long, blue trousers and white shirt looked crisp and new, with not a stain or rip to be seen. The same went for Trout, in fact. And Davidson! Blaine barely had time to gape at the stony-faced officer who completed their odd little welcoming party before the captain took his elbow in a firm grasp and began towing him urgently away. "Did you get a new ship?" he demanded. "Did something happen to the old one? Did it sink? Is everyone all right? Why do Trout and Davidson look so strange?"

Blaine lobbed question after unanswered question while being forcibly rushed across the deck. He was starting to feel like a prisoner again, until he finally put his foot down, so to speak. The captain had managed to get him through a doorway to a set of stairs leading belowdecks without uttering a single word, and Blaine was fed up enough to yank his elbow back. He stopped moving, crossing his arms over his chest with a glare. Just who did this pirate think he was? "I demand an explanation! I am not going one step farther until I get some answers," he declared. With force. He jutted his chin, proud of himself for asserting his rights.

Captain's hand shot forward, catching Blaine's chin and propelling him backwards until he collided with the wall. His arms started to pinwheel, and for a frightening second, he expected to tumble down the stairs. But then he was having the breath kissed out of him and didn't have time to panic.

It was over much too soon, the captain pulling back with a wet, smacking sound, his hand keeping Blaine's head still when he would have followed. His eyes fluttered open, taking in the flushed cheeks and shiny, red lips of the man he'd waited for for so long. "Good answer," he whispered.

"There will be time for talking later. Right now, we need to get to my cabin." Captain paused. "Or someone's cabin. The First Mate Stateroom is probably empty," he rambled nonsensically.

"First Mate?" Blaine started, and was kissed quiet again. If he had thought about it, he might have been annoyed. Luckily, that didn't happen. Captain's long fingers still held his jaw, encouraging Blaine to open his mouth and let him in, which he did. But when Blaine reached out to pull him closer, a sharp hiss of pain made his hands spring open, despite wanting to cling tighter. Captain's face was inches from his own, teeth clenched, eyes closed, and tiny beads of sweat dotting his forehead. Blaine watched him pull himself together. The captain was in more pain than Blaine had realized.

He sighed, knowing full well that the foolish man had no intention of doing anything about it. Stubborn ass. "We're going to get that arm looked at now," he stated decisively, dismissing the quick frown, and putting a stop to the pointless argument – or distracting kisses – that would surely follow by the simple expedient of stepping around him. He took a page from the captain's book and grasped him by the elbow, his good elbow, leading him down the stairs to the next level. "Is this ship laid out the same way as the other one?" Blaine asked without waiting for an answer. He simply hauled Captain through the passageways, heading away from the living quarters and toward, he hoped, the infirmary. "Doc!" he shouted, figuring it would be faster than checking all the doors. Faster would be good. "Doctor!"

"No, I'm fine! The doctor can wait," Kurt complained to Blaine's back as he was tugged along in, unfortunately, the direction of the doctor. They had much more pressing matters to attend to, and really, he didn't need two working arms to be able to bend Blaine over a bed and fuck him raw.

"You are definitely not fine. You are injured and in pain, whether you want to admit it or not," Blaine announced, completely uncaring of Kurt's state of arousal. "Doctor!" he shouted again.

Down the hall, a door was flung open. "What is it?" Doc stepped quickly out of the room, concern and then exasperation written all over his face when he caught sight of Kurt being brought forcefully into his care, his arm in a sling. "I should have guessed. You're not gone twelve hours before you manage to hurt yourself," he scolded while running a critical eye over Kurt in search of the problem. "What's happened?"

"I'm fine," Kurt tried again.

"We were in a carriage that went out of control and flipped onto its side," Blaine started explaining as if Kurt hadn't spoken. "He was knocked unconscious, and when he came around, it was obvious that his shoulder at least was injured. He might have broken his arm. And I think he's hurt his knee, as well."

Kurt glared at Blaine, who led him into the room and toward the exam table. "Sit," Blaine directed. Kurt stuck out his lip and sat.

"All right, let's have a look," Doc said, after lighting more lanterns in the room. "Where does it hurt?"

 _My balls_ , Kurt thought petulantly, although his erection was mostly gone by that point and, honestly, it was his heart that ached with longing. He needed to be with Blaine, to take him somewhere they could be alone, locked in a room together until the ship was underway again and Kurt didn't have to feel that he was living on borrowed time. It would be too easy for Blaine to walk away from him while they remained in port. Why hadn't he told Finn to get them out of here when he'd had the chance?

"Your shoulder is dislocated," Doc was saying, not that Kurt was paying much attention. "When did you say this happened?"

"Last night, not long after he arrived on the island," Blaine replied, watching closely as the doctor removed the sling. Kurt sucked in a breath when the weight of his arm was no longer supported by the strip of cloth.

Doc shook his head reproachfully. "I can't imagine how much pain he must be in. It's a wonder he hasn't lost consciousness yet."

"I'm right here, you know," Kurt said through his teeth.

"Mm-hmm," Doc murmured distractedly. "Stand on his other side, will you, Anderson, and support his head so we can lay him down on the table." Neither of them paid any mind to the dirty looks Kurt was giving them. "He'll need to stay flat on his back while I reset the shoulder."

When they were finished arranging him like a rag doll, Doc went to retrieve something from one of his many cabinets, which turned out to be a wide, flat strip of leather. He brought it back and held it over Kurt's mouth, looking at him for the first time in several minutes. "Bite down on this," he instructed. "It will help." Help with what, he didn't say. Kurt opened his mouth and accepted the dry, unpleasant tasting leather between his teeth. He let his eyes convey his resentment over the doctor's bedside manner.

"Hold him down," was the last thing Kurt heard before his own scream drowned out everything else and his teeth marks became permanently etched in the strap.

Kurt wasn't sure if he had passed out. He didn't think so. His eyes were closed tight, but the leather was still in his mouth and he was panting past it from the dull throbbing in his shoulder. He could feel Doc's fingers methodically probing his leg in search of other injuries. He would be lucky if Kurt didn't kick him in the chin for his troubles.

"Captain?" He heard Blaine say quietly from somewhere near his face moments before the leather was tugged gently away and a hand pushed the hair back from his sweaty forehead. "Captain?" he said again even more softly.

Kurt's eyes blinked open, and there he was, hovering inches away with a worried frown creasing his brow. "Hi," Blaine said, laying a palm against Kurt's cheek. "How are you feeling?"

"Don't go," was all Kurt could think to say. He felt so helpless lying there, unable to stop Blaine from walking out the door the minute he confirmed that Kurt would recover.

Blaine's lips twitched upward, his brilliant eyes softening. "Where would I go?" he asked. "This is the second time you've brought me aboard your ship without asking, you know." Blaine's gaze followed his own fingers as they began to sift through Kurt's hair. Kurt had almost forgotten how much he loved it when Blaine did that. "Legend has it that any man who is captured twice by the same pirate, belongs to that pirate forever," he whispered, and caught his lower lip between his teeth.

Kurt stared at him. "That's true," he agreed faintly, once he remembered to breathe again. He certainly wasn't going to argue just because he had never heard of such a legend. 

"His arm's in a what?!" came a muted, but distinctly female shriek from somewhere within the ship.

Blaine grinned down at him. "I think Cook knows you're back."

"I'll go let her know you're all right," Doc offered, having finished his examination. Kurt had all but forgotten he was in the room.

"Thank you for fixing him, Doctor," Blaine straightened and gratefully shook Doc's hand.

"Not at all," Doc replied, shaking his head in resignation. "That's what I do." He smiled fondly at Kurt. "I'll tell Cook you're resting and try to keep her out of your hair for a little while, but you know how she is."

"I know. Thanks, Doc." Kurt could smile and answer politely now that his most immediate fear had been put to rest. Then the door closed and Kurt and Blaine were alone.

Heart pounding in his chest, Kurt waited to see what Blaine would do. He hated this feeling of uncertainty. He needed to know that Blaine wanted to be with him of his own free will. "You told me once that you wanted to travel the world. Why did you stay on this island?" he finally asked the question that had been on the tip of his tongue all night.

Blaine huffed an embarrassed little laugh before he answered. "I did want that." He turned and wandered aimlessly around the room. "When I left home, I was setting out to see the world because I wanted to find my place in it." He shook his head. "I thought it would take years, if I ever found it at all, that perfect place." Their gazes locked. "What I really wanted was to find a person I could be happy with. Fall in love with. Make a home with. If I could find that, then wherever we happened to be would be my perfect place."

"Did you find it?" Kurt asked softly.

Blaine's eyes shone. "Yes. I found it, so much sooner than I ever imagined. But there was one problem. It turned out that my perfect place was always on the move, and when I lost it, I didn't know how to find it again. All I could do was wait for it to come back to me."

Kurt wanted to go to him, hold him, make promises he would never break. When he struggled to sit up, Blaine hurried over to his side. "No. Don't try to get up, yet. You'll hurt yourself. Wait until the doctor comes back, please, Captain."

Kurt dropped back to the table, grabbing hold of Blaine's hand before he could move away again. He brought it to his mouth. "Blaine," he said, pressing warm, smiling kisses to Blaine's knuckles, "what did I tell you about calling me Captain?"

Blaine laughed and leaned close, sinking his skilled fingers back into Kurt's hair. "I'm sorry. In all the excitement of being captured by my favorite pirate again, I must have forgotten. Would you rather I call you Michael?"

Nose scrunching up in distaste, Kurt shook his head. "Definitely not. You can call me Kurt."

Blaine frowned, standing upright again. "Really? I just told you I'm in love with you, and yet you still won't tell me your real name?"

Blaine loved him. Kurt beamed. Then his smile fell away and his brows knit. "What do you mean? That is my real name."

"But. No." Blaine was shaking his head in denial. "Captain Kurt Black is your alias. Surely you can tell me your real name. You should know by now that you can trust me not to–"

"Blaine," Kurt gently interrupted, "I do trust you." He tugged Blaine closer and pulled him down to kiss his soft lips. "I love you." He kissed him again and again, until Blaine left off frowning in favor of kissing him back. Then he tried again between kisses. "My name is Kurt Hummel. I grew up near New York Harbor, where my father works. His name is Burt Hummel. My mother, Elizabeth, died when I was eight years old. My father eventually remarried a lovely widow named Carole, who also had a son about my age. He has been my brother ever since, and his name is Finn Hudson, but you know him as Mr. Finley."

Blaine stared at him, trying to take it all in. "Mr. Finley is your step-brother?"

Kurt shook his head. "We usually don't bother with the 'step' part. He's my brother."

"And your name really is Kurt?" Blaine asked wonderingly.

"Kurt Hummel." He smiled. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"Kurt Hummel," Blaine murmured, his smile growing bigger. "Kurt Hummel." He cupped Kurt's face, pressing their lips together. "You are my perfect place, Kurt Hummel."

"You're mine too," Kurt answered against his mouth.

"How long do you think we have before someone interrupts us?" asked Blaine, brows wiggling with naughty suggestions.

Kurt thought about it and sighed. "Knowing Cook, not nearly long enough… You'd better lock the door."

* * *

**Epilogue**

About a year had passed. Kurt couldn't say precisely, as he wasn't keeping track. Funny how it didn't seem important anymore.

He stood on the covered porch of a lovely, sprawling house set at the top of a low hill, and looked out over the gently sloping landscape. The sun glinted merrily off the rows of deep purple grapes that made up their small, private vineyard.

In the distance, he could see Blaine speaking with one of the knowledgeable local workers they had hired to care for the delicate fruit. With Kurt's help, his grasp of the language had improved rapidly, especially once they'd arrived in France. He no longer needed Kurt to translate for him in most cases.

Settling here, in Southern France, had been an easy decision for them after months of traveling. Blaine had fallen in love with this place, just as Kurt had done the first time he'd come here, years ago.

It was strange to think that Blaine hadn't always been with him. Kurt couldn't imagine life without him now. Never had he been so happy, so content, as he was here, living with Blaine in their new home, building a life together far away from the dangers of being a pirate, or former pirate.

Captain Black no longer existed. Here, he was only Kurt, the man who loved Blaine.

* * *

**The End**

* * *

**A/N:**  Special thanks to [lizzard713](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/1240622/) on FFnet, who betaed this last chapter for me, and whose encouragement helped keep me going to the end.

Other notes: I received a question about the Chinese water torture, which I tried to describe as it was shown on Mythbusters. No electricity or physical injury is involved. It's drops of water falling on an immobilized person's forehead (see YouTube Mythbusters Water Torture). Also remember, it's never okay to torture anyone outside of fiction. If you didn't already know that, you should stop reading now and seek therapy immediately. Thanks. :)

I hope the fake names weren't too confusing. For the curious, I've added a list below to identify everyone. Stop now if you don't want to know who's who.

Thanks again for reading! *hugs*

* * *

**CAST OF CHARACTERS**

The Blackbird:  
~Captain: Kurt Hummel (Captain Black) [The sole reason I write gay smut.]  
~First Mate: Finn Hudson (Mr. Finley) [Lives on in our hearts and stories.]  
~Quartermaster: Noah Puckerman (Puck) [I know you knew that. Hush, you.]  
~Cook: Lauren Zizes (Cookie, if you're very brave) [Mama Bear.]  
~Cook's Assistants: Rory Flanagan (Billy) / Ryder Lynn (Alex) [Anyone guess Ryder? I know I didn't give you much to go on with that one.]  
~Watch Captain: Sam Evans (Trout) [I gave you lots to go on with this one.]  
~Sailing Master: Mike Chang (Mick) [Of the Looozyana Malaprops.]  
~Master Gunner: David Karofsky (Mr. Davidson) [Scowlypants. Some of you guessed him right away. :) Well done!]  
~Ship's Purser: Arty Abrams (Mr. Abraham (Abe)) [Sorry about the leg, sweetie.]  
~Surgeon: Will Schuester (Doc) [If you didn't get that one, you should watch more Glee. So should I, actually. So should we all.]  
~Apprentice Quartermaster: Jake Puckerman (Jack) [Never actually fellated a ship's wheel, to my knowledge.]  
~Sailor: Rick (the Stick) [His personality is as ugly as his mullet.]  
~Sailor: Brad (Pepe) [Darn kids think he's at their beck and call.]  
~Sailors: Wes and David (Dom and Tibby) [If you guessed these two, I'm seriously impressed!]

The Iron Fist:  
~Passenger: Blaine Anderson [Raise your hand if you'd like to play Pirate & Captive with him.]  
~Crew: Thad, Beatbox, Trent and Nick [Winners: Best 18th Century Cellmates Award.]  
~Passenger: Emma Pillsbury (Rachel's companion) [Imprisonment is immersion therapy for her.]  
~Passenger: Rachel Berry [Insert pithy comment here.]  
~Passenger: Brittany Pierce (the ladies' maid) [There's never a time when I don't love Brittany.]  
~Passenger: Joe Hart (the ladies' footman) [No dreads. Still hot.]  
~Captain: Hunter Clarington [Not even remotely bi-curious.]  
~First Mate: Sebastian Smythe [Practices his meerkat smirk in front of a mirror.]  
~Second Mate: Dustin Goolsby [Sergeant Handsome.]  
~Navigator: Dakota Stanley [Woodland Creature.]  
~Sailor: Old Salt (Ken Tanaka)

I know some of you wondered about Burt, since he wasn't on the ship. I pictured him all along working at New York Harbor, where he'd be in a position to hear tales of all sorts of shady goings-on that he would pass on to Kurt. He's the Dock Master of a wharf on the East River, which means Kurt grew up in, and 'patrolled' the streets of lower Manhattan. He was either extremely brave or completely crazy. Either way, I love him.


End file.
